


Out of Darkness, Light

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 3rd Age - The Stewards, General
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2010-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-22 10:58:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 53,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3726238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A small group of elves travels from Lothlorien to Imladris. On the way, two - Caelwen and Lothdaimoth -are lost from the others by fire and wargs in the fields south and west of the confluence of the Gladden and Anduin rivers.  Injured and alone, they must try to make their way to Rivendell.  The year is 3008.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wolves!

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

_Note:_

_There were five people involved in writing this chapter.  Each paragraph was written by one of the five, and the others responded with a paragraph of their own, detailing what their chosen character would do as the action unfolded.  Each person had about 15 minutes to read the most recent paragraphs and respond to them._

_Because this chapter has more people, I have reordered the paragraphs some so that the action will make sense.  The other chapters in this story will, for the most part, only have 2 or 3 writers._

_As I noted in the overview, I want to link a number of these scenes together to make a more coherent story out of them.  Any comments on how that is working, or what (if anything) seems to be missing, would be most appreciated._

_Thanks for reading!_

\----

From whence comes that strange wind? But it matters little. Nearby is the  Gladden River, ever sonorous in her gentle song. The fields before her are plain enough, covered with marsh and grasses, and yet there is a sense here of great deeds done once, long ago. This land is fey, and never quite calm. The light of the evening sun settles upon the reeds as they move and whisper in the wind. The dry, warm earth seems almost alive. All around, dense thorny shrubs sprawl over the land.

Though the sky directly overhead has lingered in summer blue since the morning, it lies not undisturbed in the West. There has storm sat, brooding and purposeful in growing swirls of deep gray and black: a wall raising now to shut out the the sun. The reeds lose their golden color, and in the long shadows and early gloom, there is a small party of Galadhrim walking through the grass.  Thoughts of the night's camp rise in their minds, as the sun sinks into the cloud-mass and is lost.

"There is more than storm upon the air," are the only words that leave Galindrion's mouth.  He quickens his steps, moving up from the rear of the passing group and shaking his head.  His hand wraps about his sword hilt as he looks warily about.  And the rumbles of thunder begin to pour in thick waves; sharp cracks of electricity tearing through the air in explosive and radiant tendrils. The sky grows darker, black clouds swirling higher and higher overhead, sent by a high fast wind.  They have all but blotted out the evening sky until it might be midnight come early, so dark has it grown, save for only in the east, where still for a while longer, clear sky can be seen.

As Galindrion passes him, another elf turns to watch him go.  Lothdaimoth, the youngest of all the party except for two, nods a brief greeting, then returns to scanning the rough marshy ground. Tall grasses and reeds ripple in the evening wind, tangled thickets of brush scraping and groaning among themselves; and his hand tightens on his bow.  Anything could be hidden in this mess, and he would never see it - the noise of the wind and thunder masks any sounds that might be near, and the thrashing of the wind-whipped trees hides any movement.

He turns, giving his younger cousin a swift reassuring smile.  "Stay near to me, Caelwen," he says softly. She has tagged at his heels since she was barely able to walk, and she is still there now, half-smiling in return, and whispering, "What think you he meant by that?"

"Do you not feel it? The land knows what manner of beasts crawl over its surface... There is something out there. Even the wind sounds evil." With a shriek, the wind howls around a finger of rock, and Lothdaimoth stops speaking abruptly, looking sharply up a low draw, and half raises his bow.

Behind him, Caelwen's slim fingers tighten on her walking-stick, and out of the corner of his eyes, he sees the end lift from the ground, turning the dirty length of wood into a stave.  "I thought this is how the outside world is supposed to feel!" she whispers, then shivers, and scans the surrounding land again and again.

Lothdaimoth gives her a brief shake of his dark head. "No." His arrow is fitted to the string, ready to be aimed and loosed; but there is no target. "Not all of it is thus. You will see." The wind brings a chill more than just physical, and an involuntary shudder ripples through his soft grey shirt. "Stay behind me." His voice is harsh, though little louder than a whisper. She nods, clutching her staff with both hands, and holding it up defensively.

**

The summer has been dangerously dry, and even elves can't find silent passage - there is a small, faint crackle and crisp from the desolate and thirsty land with each step they take.  The only comfort Galindrion can take is that, if they can hear nothing above the wind and thunder, nothing else is likely to be able to hear them.  Again lightning flashes in the west, thrice and each strike more brilliant than the next.  Galindrion shivers, and lifts his hood, glancing back along the line of travelers to make sure each is in place and ready.  "We must hurry!" he calls in a low voice.  "There is a place near where we can shelter."  He points northward.

"A foul scent lies heavy on that breeze," a voice says at his shoulder, and he nods without looking around.  It is Erinstar, and his own sword is drawn and ready.  He looks behind also, following Galindrion's glance along the strung-out line of elves that hurries north.  A rather small figure is struggling to keep up.  Instead of grey like most of the others, she is wearing a garment of green, the hood pulled up about her head.  The bow strapped upon her back, doesn't seem to weigh her down, and Erinstar frowns.  "Merilwen is behind," he murmurs, just as a gust of wind hits her and blows her hood off, causing curls of gold to toss about in the air. Quickly pulling it back around her face, Merilwen stops in her tracks.

Galindrion looks back, unslinging his bow from its rest on his shoulder, "I will return to the rear," he says quietly.  "Do you watch the path ahead."  He moves lightly past the line, a hand brushing Merilwen's shoulder with comfort, though he does not stop.  Something else lies in wait; or else his senses lie.

And now the wind does more than lash at brambles and grass and gibber around rocks. Whistling through the plains that edge the marshland north and east, it brings them a keening wail. Two howls. Now three. Another. And another. Closing in from north, south and east.

Merilwen smiles gratefully as Galindrion's hand touches her shoulder, but her expression turns quickly to fear by the bone-chilling cries. She hurries forward until she is only a few paces away from Caelwen and Lothdaimoth. Her little hands are shoved deeply into her cloak pockets; despite the danger, she hasn't yet readied her longbow and it bounces slightly against her back.

As a vengeful fist opening with ragged claws, so does the storm reach with anger from its roost, pouring in all directions with deep and rowdy intent. Echo after echo of thunder is rent from the sky by the blasts of lightning signaling doom. 'Boom boom boom' rolls down the mountain - black trumpets bellowing bass to give root to the howls of the oncoming wolves.  These too grow in chorus, a wicked harmony cast by Melkor and bred within the bones of all his creatures. Too familiar to Firstborn; too close now for much hope.

And if it was dark before, now it is truly black, with little light from moon or star making way through the clouds fraught with rain. Yet no eyes are needed to sense the other gathered darkness pressing slowly around.  Speed, stealth, and silence: the marks of a hunting pack. Shadows dart through the brambles with the wind.

**

Erinstar watches Galindrion return to the rear, then goes himself swift and sure onward, scouting the narrow path until he is far ahead.  There the Lady's Herald crouches with one knee upon the earth, studying the ground, his sword - fell Anseregurth - held with its naked tip to the ground in challenge to whatever may watch. No shield is bourne upon his arm; it has been laid carefully aside for some unspoken purpose. Yet perhaps most striking of all, the young Aracarach's cowl hangs limp behind him, long brown tresses flowing rampant and careless in the wind.  At last he stands, wordless and defiant of the evil which lurks unseen, sword bared and ready to wreak what havoc it may. Indeed, he seems unfazed by the storm which rages overhead, as if not one who is beholden to the mighty tempest, but perhaps a part of it.  Then he hears a shout, and turns.

"Wolves!" It is Galindrion, his voice faint, but clear, as he races again northward to rejoin the group, "Wargs no less and many! We have no choice but flight!" A panic hangs upon him, eyes wide with shock, lips full and open with heavy breath as he turns and nocks an arrow - the sound of the endless howling the only aim. "Curse the shortsighted men of Gondor, that these beasts were NOT destroyed," he yells, firing a second then from longbow, his legs solid and shoulder width apart - a fell fury deeply locked upon his brow.

Still silent and serene as the night sinks deeper into chaos, Erinstar searches the night until his eyes land on the nearest and largest of the craven beasts. He strides back to meet it, walking as if between the raindrops. Slowly does Anseregurth rise in warning, angled sharply away with reluctant patience for the servant of the enemy to strike first.  Water drips ominously from the blade as it starts to rain.

The master of the Wargs stands before him, pausing; it paws the dirt beneath its feet, poised upon small hill-top. Two more join it, one at each shoulder. Raising its head, the wolf bellows a final call, long and twisting with the writhing desire of bloodlust, and waits no more: leaping across the expanse towards Erinstar with its mates at its tail.

With almost casual ease, the Herald steps aside from the warg's lunge, the cold steel of his sword lowering at last to meet the charge. Erinstar deigns not even to spare a glance the wretched creature as he arcs his blade at its neck - blood sprays over his leggings and soaks into the ground.

The others bare their fangs at the herald, and yet they hesitate -- seemingly entranced by the single drop of water that slowly sparkles downwards from the blade. So it is that one holds its ground, though the other tries to dart past, flashing in a single timed strike: charging for the hamstring from the side.  But only these two wargs remain engaged in combat with Erinstar. More of them, ever cowardly, strike where they sense weakness and fear: rushing for the edhil who flee.

And then they both are upon him, snarling, their fangs glinting evilly in the flashes of lightning; and Erinstar loses track of the rest of his comrades as he bends all his attention and skill to the fight.

**

Furtive shapes now tease at the corners of Lothdaimoth's vision, but there is little to aim at. Jagged purple-silver streaks claw at the roiling pitchy sky, framing the landscape in lurid colors before all is plunged into blackness again. In that brief moment, he raises his bow swiftly to his cheek and fires; the arrow sent at random into the darkness.  A howl cuts off to a whimper.

A second arrow is drawn and fired, equally randomly, before Lothdaimoth whirls to look for Caelwen. Dark eyes go beyond her to another slim figure in white and he waves his free arm at his sister. The howling wind mingles with the wails of the wargs, and he shouts to be heard. "Tiina! Stay near! We must not be separated!"

From the north, a single figure looms abruptly in the darkness: the unmistakable silhouette of a wolf. Still, the danger to the Galadhrim is not only from ahead; for as they halt, the beasts move east in a loose circle.

"Men," Caelwen spits.  "Untrustworthy..." She stops when Lothdaimoth whirls, though she doesn't glance at Tiinwaia. Instead, she plants her feet wide and solid and watches arrows slice through wind, swallowing nervously.  Her eyes are drawn away by the wolf before them. She stares at the beast, and a hand leaves her stave long enough to fly to her throat then quickly return, some of the few raindrops caught beneath her palm now. Her eyes are wide now and fearful.

Another arrow is drawn and nocked to string in one swift movement; and with only time enough to aim, it too is sent hissing towards the warg nearest Lothdaimoth and his closest companions. Immediately, another is at the ready. "Run!" he shouts frantically, and fainter, Galindrion's voice repeats the same command.  "Flee!  North!  To the Herald!" he shouts at them.  Tiina's pale face turns in horror from wolf to fire and she begins to run. Not north towards Erinstar, but south to Galindrion.  A wolf leaps at her, tearing her cloak.  It catches at her throat, choking her, before the clasp snaps.

An arrow comes out of the night thudding into the beast's chest.  It falls backwards, gnawing and snapping at the shaft, and Galindrion beckons Tiinwaia.  "Hurry!  Behind me, go north as swiftly as you can!" And just then a blast of lightning cracks, breaking and exploding all too near to the Galadhrim. Ever seeking the highest point, it finds a small huddle of scraggly, barely-there trees; fire breaks out immediately from their branches. The small ring is quickly engulfed in wreathes of orange, gold and haunting red; lines of fire sweep out from its direction across the grassland, each dried bramble and brush succumbing to its thirst. Woe upon the rain for its brevity.

Tiinwaia gasps, soundlessly, the fire painting her pale face bloody.  She throws a wild glance towards her brother, then races back to the north - the flames forcing her towards the east.

**

Patient despite beastly hunger, practiced beyond the simplicity of beasts, the approaching Wargs are now ringing Lothdaimoth and Caelwen in near-circle, the largest defiant as he approaches one slow pace after the other. Blood drools from its mouth, an arrow lodged in its throat but the beast only snarls the sharper for the pain and fury of its injury.

There is still no enemy for Caelwen to strike-- the wargs are not close enough for that, though they are far too close for any comfort or cheer -- and what good is a stave to fire?  She runs, and swiftly, after Tiina's white-clad form. Her flashing heels kick at her mantle, her fiery braid jounces, and the staff beats at dried brambles.  But there is the wolf between her and safety now, crouching to spring and baring its teeth at her.  Terrified, she whirls around - there.  The fire spreads through the dry grass, but there is still a gap.  She leaps for it, running westward as fast as she can.

Even as she flees, the wall of fire grows greater. Uncontainable, unrelenting it spreads arms northward. One flickering line blocks eastward retreat; the other shoots across the grass between Lothdaimoth and Galindrion.  Flashes of movement yank Lothdaimoth's head around and his eyes widen. Sister and cousin are fleeing, as ordered - but not north towards Erinstar. And now the greedy flames lick at the grass behind him, making a return to the east impossible. A glance behind shows Galindrion attacked, and an arrow is sent in aid of his friend; slicing even through the orange inferno down at the flank of the great creature. Turning then, he leaps after Caelwen. "Caelwen! Turn north!" A harried look over his shoulder at fire and wolves and he mutters, "If you can.."

The Wargs press in upon south and east, fearless of flames. Ten or twenty, in the darkling shadows cast by beast silhouetted in flame, their numbers intermingled and uncounted.

Save those before one's face, as the beast before Galindrion, its two mates turning for blood upon the Herald. The furious pace of the first brings it before the Counsel; it leaps towards neck as he unprepared can only deflect beast with his bow. The blow lands solidly enough to protect his throat, but not left shoulder: claws dragging raggedly past, beast then landing and turning about for another pass.

At the first pass of the beast, the Counsel Galindrion's fury came to the front, bow slung hurriedly to back as right hand unleashed the whisper of Umdoldagnir. Turning about with blade poised he sees the first blessing of fate amidst the chaos comes, and just in time. Lothdaimoth's arrow flies into the pack's leader, burying within his chest mid-flight towards Galindrion's torso. With a wretch and a howl, his jump twists and misses, paws landing awkwardly and near to Galindrion.  In rending slice through the air, the Counsel's blade dives towards the Wolf. "A Gilthoniel," he screams as he takes hilt by second hand, thrusting it deep into the beast in plunging stab. An explosion makes angled stain across bright face, matting his hair as he stands full-height again, clutching the wounded shoulder as he calls once more, "Fly and make haste, north, north and from the flame!" Turning in swathe of soaking gray travel cloak, he raises blade once more and turns upon one of the Herald's attackers.

Without thought, Caelwen turns north with the very next footfall after Lothdaimoth's call. Flame raises like a tinted, flapping veil through which she can see the figures of Erinstar and others, but may not follow. "I cannot!" she cries, voice high and wavering with panic. She whirls around, her hand sliding to the end of the stave and swiping wildly at the wargs. Still swinging, she turns again westward and flees.

Even as he runs, Lothdaimoth is fitting another arrow to his bow. A turn, half-halting, and he shoots at the nearest of the wargs; then leaps ahead, closing the distance between himself and his cousin. The wild wind howls about them, whipping his long black hair through the air. "Nevermind," he says, between huge gasps for breath. "Just run." A quick glance is taken behind, the wargs have not yet closed on them; and he redoubles his speed. "Run!"

Only one, brief glance is braved over Caelwen's shoulder, an impression of Lothdaimoth behind her and wolves behind Lothdaimoth, and red-orange fire billowing behind, around, over them all. It is enough to spur her onward. She leans over, tucks her staff beneath her arm, and runs as fleet as a doe, her mantle flying behind her..

The ground is rising, becoming rockier. And the rocks lurk in the grass for the unwary foot. Still, neither cousin has fallen prey to this lesser foe. Yet. One larger rises up just before them and Lothdaimoth jumps for it, turning as he leaps to land facing the wolves that follow. And there he stands for a brief moment, arrows sent howling down at the slavering beasts as quickly as he can draw and fire. His chest is heaving as he breathes, the wolves draw nearer; still each shot is given its due of careful aim. Without waiting to see the results of all his arrows, he whirls and with a running jump, is off again. Behind them, the others of his party grow small in the distance and once more, he calls to Caelwen. "Turn! We are getting too far away..."

And now, with pristine finality comes the rain: drenching once more in blast after blast of water.  The fire roars back at it - too great now to be easily quenched.  It licks greedily at the grass matted along the ground, and leaps triumphantly when a tinder-dry shrub comes within its reach.  It is a scene from some nightmare - the orange light flickering over everything, the eerily-lit rain sleeting down, the howling, snarling shapes of the wargs.

Caelwen's hair and clothes drink thirstily of the water, cloak catching at her calves and her hair plastering down to her skull. Her erratic path takes her darting around stones, over them, and she whirls at Lothdaimoth's call. She hesitates; she is further away than her cousin and the main party seems dishearteningly far. "But we will have to go through the beasts!" Her quick steps back are almost like a stumble. Her breath gasps from her.

 "Go... North..." Lothdaimoth pants as he runs. "Maybe we... can get... past them." The sudden drenching rainfall brings a worried look to the sky and then to his bow. Too much water and his arrows will not fly as true. Just then the treacherous rocks, turned slippery by the rain, slide underfoot and he stumbles, nearly falling. One hand skids across the ground. And recovering himself, he flees after Caelwen.

**

Divided by the flames as well, the pressing attack of the Wargs becomes scattered. Flame upon the west. Flame upon the south. And flame scrambling its most intense search for fuel through the middle of the fray. Lightning and storm threatens all about to return; whether the wind and rain would be blessing to end the fire, or curse to darken the evening uncertain.

With a yelp, twisting his body to the side, Galindrion takes the first blow from the wolf's claws - a glancing of claws across right thigh. He parries madly with his longsword to keep the beast's claws from finding further mark. He leaps back, and the beast leaps forward, jaws slavering and red eyes glaring madly. Galindrion spins around, and narrowly ducking its leap, he strikes. And finds flesh to mark upon the hindquarters of the beast. It howls, turning again to face him - in defiance and bloodlust ignorant that now its brethren are scattering, or dead.

Erinstar sees the difficulty that Galindrion is in, and races back past the others, who are running north to shelter. Leaping into the fray, the Herald lunges forward, his sword glittering in the flashes of lightning and the red flicker of the brushfire.  The warg is taken by surprise by this unexpected attack, and leaps three paces backward, snarling and growling through teeth locked shut; then with final might it leaps again, straight for Galindrion's throat.

The Counsel stands proud before it, moving his blade slowly from side to side, and as it jumps, he sides-steps and stabs, slicing into the beast's flank. With a howl of pain it falls back, bleeding, and tries to crawl away. Erinstar deals the final blow, cutting through the wolf's throat.  The two of them stand then, staring through the darkness and the scattered rain, trying to find if all their kindred are safe.

Hissing, belching and otherwise clinging to its life, the raging brush-fire loses the battle, and mostly goes out, save for small sheltered patches, where it still burns sullenly, leaping now and then into fresh life, before subsiding again. There lie scattered about four wolf-carcasses, and only nine of the party of eleven remain within sight. Galindrion is shaking from all limbs, and finally gasps, "There... two gone.  Caelwen...!  Curses that I should have pressed for this trip." He drops to one knee, bending to rest his head in his hand.

In the distance south and westward, the howls of Wargs regrouped and ready to return echo back to them. Farther away than when the first calls were heard, but still near enough. Far too near. The scent of blood is fresh for their nostrils, and soon enough shall Orc Patrols find them.

Erinstar searches the night, his eyes landing on each body - that of dead wolf, or running elf - and at last turn to Galindrion. "You must take our kinsmen and retreat to the north. Seek shelter, and repair from injury and grief... And I shall drink from the cup of vengeance. You are in command." No more does he say, but slips off into the dark of night with grim intent, fading into the shadows.

"Do not lose yourself as well!" calls Galindrion with desperation. Still upon his knee, down and humbled to the ground he lingers; and finally rises, and begins to run after the remaining elves, who have clustered together at the top of a small rise and are waiting for him. "Find them, cousin, find them!" he cries to Erinstar, and to himself, "Should they die, their deaths shall lead me out of Arda and to the west.." A single tear rifles down his cheek as he lifts his hood once more.  As he catches up with the others, he says, "Across the river, hurry! Before worse shall befall us."  Wind drives another sheet of rain upon the counsel, and the heavy drops mingle with his tears, as he looks back one last time, before leading the way into the night.

_And thus it was that there was a sundering, and two of the Galadhrim elves were lost to their kindred for a time.  Unable to find a way back, they wandered far alone, seeking ways through unknown lands, to cross the forbidding mountains and come at last to the Valley of Elrond in safety.  This story is theirs; of their kindred who also sought that valley, we shall not now speak, save that they continued on and came by familiar ways to Imladris._


	2. All That Open Land

_It has been a long journey; though the time that has actually passed is short, uncertainty and discomfort make short seem very long.  And the time since Lothdaimoth and Caelwen found themselves alone in a strange land, treeless and oppressively open and shelterless, hounded by wolves, has seemed very long indeed._

The foothills which rise to the west give way to the vales, soft plains of dry and warm earth, rolling gently before you. To the east, the fabled Gladden fields lie; to the north, the river herself echoes a gentle call. The grasses here are short and verdant, rippling in the breeze. But further east, dense sprawling brambles begin to rise.The sky is clear. The dawn summer air is very hot and dry.   
  
Dawn comes as it does every morning, as familiar as breathing yet strange and foreign as everything is lately. Even breathing grows unfamiliar as hot and dry air sears and parches the lungs, and the dawn is cast across new lands, the colors brasher, brighter, attacking the eyes. But still Caelwen watches it, gaze half-shuttered and wincing. She stands in grasses to her knees, stave propped on one end-- a walking stick again. And perhaps she looks eastward for reasons beyond the sunrise.  
  
The past few days of running, lost from their comrades and harried by apparently tireless wargs, has left its mark on Lothdaimoth. Dark eyes jump ceaselessly over the treeless landscape, lingering on every clump of grass. His face is pale, even more than normal, and lines of anxiety and fear have drawn themselves finely along his eyes and mouth. And by how his gaze goes ever and again to Caelwen, it may be certain who most of the fear is for. Finally, he moves a step forward. "Come." His voice is gentle, weary, very quiet, and even as he speaks, he does not look away from their surroundings. "I have not seen the last warg for some time. I think it may have gone to join its pack to the south." A nervous glance over tense shoulders. "Let us try to veer east again."  
  
It takes a moment for Caelwen to respond as she stares away into the distance as though enthralled by some minute thing far away. "Aye, Lothdaimoth," she replies numbly. She blinks, and unlike her cousin's frantic gaze that flies hither and thither, she looks away only once, and to him. Her voice comes again, small and faintly meek. "But when might we rest? You seem fearfully tired, cousin. And I am, too." But her feet lift from where they were planted, and she wades through the grasses toward the sunrise, walking finally, not running.  
  
"I know." Lothdaimoth's voice is rough. "In a little, we may rest." A few stalks of grass rustle and his eyes fly there at once, bow beginning to raise; before he realizes it is just the wind. And his voice tightens. "We must get as far as we can. There are worse things in these lands than wolves."  
  
"Aye," Caelwen whispers, shoulders hunching and feet finding some reserve of energy that urges them just a bit faster. "I felt it when first we ran." She shivers, and finds herself moving closer to her cousin as they walk. "I wish we were closer to home, and could just go /there/." Her voice lilts briefly with distress; emotion finding her again. "Where do you suppose everyone else has gone? Do you suppose they will wait for us?"  
  
The rising sun paints the eastern sky in brilliant colors; colors that melt so seamlessly one to the next that where they change cannot be told. And the coming of day brings some small relief of the tension that tightens Lothdaimoth's jaw and twitches at the corners of his mouth. "I am not certain. I know where is the pass that we must take.. if none wait for us where the fire was, we must head towards it." The brief rainstorm several days ago has vanished without trace, and again dry grasses whisper about their feet as they walk. Step as quietly as they might, and for the Firstborn of Arda this is very quiet; still some small sound is made. None save another of their kindred might hear it though and no trace of footsteps are left behind. "Then it is only a few days further to Imladhris and the safety of the Peredhel's valley."  
  
"So we must only walk a few days to safety, then?" Caelwen asks, and faster now she strides at the thought, her staff making more noise in the grasses than she does. "I thought... well, I was worried that we might... well, nevermind." She sighs, and slips a sidelong glance to Lothdaimoth. "I am so very glad you know where we are. I would be lost without you."  
  
A sigh. Reluctantly, the vintner says, "Nay. I meant tis but a few days after we make it safely across the pass. Here.." He stops in his tracks, turning in all directions. Shading his eyes with one hand, his bow still held in the other, he only turns to continue walking when no movement is seen anywhere within reach of his vision. Two long strides suffice to bring him again to Caelwen's side. "It has been nigh on two days since the wolves attacked. We must return there - though I fear to..." Voice trailing off, he is silent for long minutes; a brooding frown creasing his forehead. "Then, if none wait there, we must try and make our way to the pass. Were we closer - and did not yrch and warg bar our path, I would counsel returning to Lorien. But I think that is now more dangerous than continuing on."  
  
"Oh." The sinking of her buoyed spirits plunges Caelwen even lower, and her tread slows as her shoulders slump again. A sigh, and silence for a time aside from the faint crunching of their quiet footsteps. The numbed, listless voice returns. "Well, let us not think on it. Though I am glad Father stuck bread and lembas into my pack for me." A half-smile lifts. "He gave me a note to tell me not to let you eat it all. Oh! I am glad he does not know of this, so he does not worry!"  
  
For the first time, Lothdaimoth stops for a reason not directly related to flight. "Lembas?" he says, almost blankly. It seems that minor considerations like food have slipped his mind completely. And a smile spreads itself across his face, the first for two days. "Caelwen..." He shakes his head, long tangled strands of black hair swinging freely behind him, and wraps one arm around her in a swift hug. "By all means, let us eat!"

His arm thrown about her, Caelwen stills with a relieved sigh, and turns to hug Lothdaimoth tightly despite the forever-hot air. "I am so glad you are here." Her voice is muffled in his shoulder. "Though I would not wish you in peril." She steps back, and abruptly flops to the ground with stave clattering away, settling herself cross-legged with another grateful sigh.   
"I think we ought to eat the loaf Ada packed," she continues, tone chatty as though this were nothing more than a social visit. "It will go bad before the lembas would." She unslings her pack from behind her and eases out a parchment-wrapped package. Some of it is already eaten; she rips of a fist-sized lump and passes it, wrapper and all, to Lothdaimoth. She smiles to him. "Look at what he wrote on the paper. Ai! I miss everyone so much!" Her hand shakes as she holds out the loaf, trembling the paper and betraying the stress she strives to hide.  
  
 _Aiya, Hiril Collwen!_  
 _Well, well, I would ask of you how far you had traveled ere you found this note, yet I should think a reply would return no sooner than will you! Ada and Miluiel and your Rogin Firnalas (he is sighing quite often now, is he not?) All miss you very much and hope you will come home soon and safe. But did neither of them think that mayhap the Indiri would like to eat? Ai! Do not worry, all will be well at home, and they will be sighing still when you return._  
Ada  
  
PS: Do not let Caranteil eat it all!

Lothdaimoth does not sit, for several minutes after Caelwen has plumped herself down, he turns about peering across the waving empty lands that slope down towards the river. Even when he is satisfied, he but crouches down beside her. His bow is laid aside, but ready to hand - one of his dwindling supply of arrows placed beside it. For a brief time after Caelwen hands him the loaf, there is no sound nearby save the crinkling of the wrapper. Bugs hiss and buzz and hum hidden in the tall weeds, and somewhere far above, a lone bird circles lazily. The pervasive heat presses down like a smothering blanket; but suddenly all this is broken by the sound of a chuckle. "I will not eat it all. And my feet are no redder than anyone else's." Breaking off a bit of the loaf, he begins to chew, stretching up to glance around.  
  
"Your feet are not red?" Caelwen lilts, a thin layer of cheerfulness stretched loosely over the fear in her voice. "After all this running? And this heat? Look! You do not sit even now. You manage to redden them even without grapes." The young Silvan is savoring her father's gift, holding the diminishing lump of bread in both hands and eating as slowly as possible. Tears shimmer in her eyes; she swallows forcefully and allows none to fall.  
  
His own small hunk of bread is gone, but Lothdaimoth says nothing about more. Instead, he follows his cousin's lead, lightening his voice and forcing some humor into his tone. "I don't see how you can tell - or is your family granted some special gift of eyesight? That of seeing through leather?" He winks, and balances on one leg, stretching the other forth for her to see. "Tis booted you see, you might say my feet are brown..."  
  
Caelwen pops the last bit of the bread into her mouth, and she covers her eyes as she chews. She swallows, sniffs loudly, and drops her hand to squint at his foot. "Aye," The word quavers, she takes a breath and speaks calm. "Aye, we can see better than the common elves." She actually chuckles at this, then looks up. "Your feet are red, not brown! And so are mine." She holds her hand up. "Are you done with the loaf?"  
  
Wordlessly, Lothdaimoth hands the remaining half-loaf back, along with its crumpled letter-wrapper. Bow and arrow are gathered without glancing at them. Straightening, he stares around again, then reaches one hand down in offer of aid. "We should be going. And..." He stops, swallows, and begins again. "It should be safe enough in the daylight.. still. Be very careful. Ill lurks in wait and we must not tarry." Deliberately making his tone casual, he ends, "If you see any of the beasts that chased us, tell me - I would prefer not to leave my arrows lying about this cursed plain."  
  
Caelwen tightens the wrapper carefully about the loaf and slips it into her pack. She takes Lothdaimoth's hand and stands again, legs shaking the least bit. Her pack is once more shouldered, stave retrieved, and she glances at him. "Aye, cousin. I will." She starts again walking, automatically placing one foot before the other, wading through the heat and grasses. "Do we rest at night?" She queries gently. "Although... honestly, I could probably make myself go another day or two. Or we could take turns resting while walking. That would undoubtedly be best. What say you?"  
  
"Let us see how far we are when even draws on." This he says, as if he has ever stopped watching. Toward the river lowlands again, they set their course - east into the rising glory of the sun. Long and wavering, their shadows stretch behind them, walking as they walk, turning as they turn. One carries a bow, arrow already strung and ready. The other's steps are echoed always by a stick, long and sturdy.

_One day is much like another: grass and grass and more grass, waving in the ceaseless wind; the small rolls and gullies of this low land; an unbroken arching sky above. And always watching, always walking, always keeping hidden as best they can - though how good can that be, here were there are no trees? Time slides together until this day cannot be distinguished from the one before it or the one before that._

_Having carefully, cautiously, returned to the place where fire and wolf sundered them from their companions, the two elves found no one waiting. "They must have gone on," Lothdaimoth tells his young cousin.  "We must go alone."  There is little sign of the battle, save for the gnawed bodies of the wolves, and the scorched land. And together, they turn north, hunting the river and the pass over the mountains._

_Caelwen's shoulders are slumped with weariness and distress, but she tacks a smile on as she turns to look at Lothdaimoth, though it trembles at the corners. "I will keep watch," she says firmly, as they walk upriver. Her staff taps the ground every third step._

_"Very well." Lothdaimoth's voice softens, goes distant. His bow slowly lowers, the great muscles of his arms and back relaxing in concert with the small ones at the edges of his eyes and mouth. Dark eyes go blank as the visible evidence of the mind behind them disappears into waking dreams. And through the silent brooding land, two elves slip; so little noticed is their passing it is like water closing round the hole where a stick had been._

*Caranteil =red foot (I think!) - a joke about him tramping out grapes for wine.


	3. River Rising

_Onward.  Onward and upward - it is far past going back, and so the two young elves do the only thing they can do.  They go onward. The ground has slowly risen, small hills lifting themselves up from the endless grasslands, becoming mountains.  Trees appear, at first one alone, and then another; but soon there are several together, and then they begin to deserve the name of 'woods'.  And as the land changes, so does the weather: heat gives way to cooler air; clouds, puffy and white at first, gather together and grow grey._

_The storms beat themselves against the high peaks of the mountains, and let their burden of rain fall on those below, drenching the forests that grow up the foothills - and everything within them.  But there are other dangers from too much water besides simply being cold and wet._

_Caelwen and Lothdaimoth have turned west after crossing the Gladden river, and are working their way up the gorge that the river comes down off the mountains in._

Sound. Roaring sound. The narrow canyon echoes with the rushing cataracts, and the air is filled with light spray. Only a narrow space separates sheer walls of sandstone from the north bank of the Gladden river. At one point a small stream comes in from a side canyon to the north, but it is shallow enough to be forded easily.   
  
The canyon is so narrow it is possible to see only a little way ahead; overhead the precipices frame a narrow slot of sky. The surface of the stream down in its bed is visible as a bare whiteness below the path, which is hard underfoot.   
  
As hot as it has been on the plains and in the river bottoms, it has been raining nearly constantly here in the highlands. Far above, a thin line of grey sky cuts through the darkness of the canyon. Sheer rock walls rise at the edge of the narrow path, rain trickling down over moss-slippery edges; rivulets of miniature rivers rushing along the path itself. Half stone, half clay, it is extremely slippery. On the right, not so far below anymore as it used to be, a swollen stream roars angrily on its way to the sea. Lothdaimoth's head is bowed, dark hair plastered to his skull. One hand trails along the cliff edge. Finally, he has slung his bow across his back - the need for hands more important just now than weapons. "Be careful!" The words are shouted, but still difficult to hear over the combined thunder of rain and creek.   
  
Caelwen's every footstep is timid, accompanied by the fervent press of her hand to the cliff face. She, too, has her staff finally put away, caught in her pack and occasionally knocking against the stone, a sound soon lost in the roar of water. Head down, hair soaked auburn, skin red beneath the multiplying freckles, her eyes fly to Lothdaimoth at his shout, as though uncertain if he has spoken or not. A pause, and her lips move in some reply, utterly destroyed in the din. Her gaze roams.. then suddenly return to the Counsel. Her high call is better heard now. "I think the creek is rising!" She creeps closer to him.   
  
Lothdaimoth nods shortly. A glance is spared to the raging waters, and he stops, palm flat against rock. Ahead, the narrow pathway twists around a bulge in the canyon wall. He edges around a little, slowly. Behind them, the canyon drops rapidly - their entry point already lost from view. A wrinkle of frown pinches black eyebrows together... "I think it is better to go on. We are more than half way up. If I am remembering aright..." Just in front of him, a smaller creeklet swirls across the stone. And carefully, feeling for every step, he starts on again.   
  
Caelwen pats Lothdaimoth's shoulder with her free hand before he starts again. She attempts no reply, but waits a brief moment before continuing herself, casting a new glare up at the sky and earning a raindrop in her eye for it. She steps forth, half-slipping on a mud patch, but catches herself against the wall. A gasping moment of fright, and she creeps forth again.   
  
The meager light filtering down from the drowning sky dims. Barely loud enough to be heard above the all-encompassing din, comes a crack. And then a different thunder. Rain-sogged soil loosens, a few pebbles bounce off stone walls; and a tree, struck by lightning in some past age and weakened, begins to topple. Lothdaimoth's eyes are fixed intently on the treacherous pathway that winds ever upwards, only occasionally flicking towards the ever-rising creek, and this second peril goes unnoticed for a time.   
  
And in that fleeting glance cast skyward, a darker shadow may be glimpsed against the inky sky. Only a fleeting image however, a silhouette which fades from sight in an instant. Perhaps but a trick of the light amidst the raindrops...   
  
But the younger cousin, weak in the nobler blood of the Grey-Elves but rich in the Nandor's gifts, halts and looks up. "Lothdaimoth!" she squeals, and abandons her clutch of the wall to reach with both hands for the Counsel's pack. This she gives a hard tug backwards, throwing her weight into it and jeapordizing her own balance.   
  
Feet slip uncontrollably at the unexpected jerk, and Lothdaimoth's fingers dig into the wall. Futilely, it seems for all this accomplishes is to leave a trail of scratch marks behind. The other arm windmills frantically, but also to no avail - with a heavy thud, he lands on his back and corkscrews down and back, finally coming to a stop. His legs hang precariously out over the drop to the creekbed, his head is wedged against an outcropping of rock. And blood trickles from a cut high on one temple.   
  
Crashing downwards, the tree brings more dirt and rocks in its wake. A small cascade of muddy stones pile themselves on top of the fallen counsel's face and chest, slithering off a second later. With a rush of wind, the trunk bounces off of the path bare inches from his feet and plummets into the raging water below.   
  
Once more reappearing over the edge of the cliff above, the shadow in the rain actually slips over the precipice, and begins to work its way slowly down the rock face up ahead. No sound of hail or greeting can be heard over the torrent of water and wind, though a sharp eye would note a familiar grey rope betwixt the figure's dark hands.  
  
But Caelwen has no time to notice ropes or shadows or anything now, for Lothdaimoth comes falling at her, knocking the already-misbalanced Cennan completely off her feet. The slickened clay of her craft becomes her enemy, slipping her backwards and headfirst down the path as her fingers scrabble and her form dredges in mud. The path curves, but she doesn't and flies out into the rain-choked space above the creek. A loud shriek of terror is quickly silenced by a splash, the latter sound mingling with the din of the storm.   
  
For a little while, she is swallowed by the dirty water. Then, a bit downstream, a bulge forms, and the gleaming surface is shattered by a gasping, choking face. Caelwen halts there, caught by something as the water pours around her, frequently splashing into her open mouth. And the swollen creek is still rising.   
  
And neither is the climber noticed by Lothdaimoth, first that he is dizzied by the blow to his head, and second that Caelwen's scream drives all other thought from his mind. Struggling to get up without sliding any further down himself, he at last makes it to his knees. Horrified eyes are riveted on the creek so far below, and its infinitely precious captive. Hands slowed by an odd swirling before his gaze, fumble for the rope at his waist. The anguish on his face tells the tale of thoughts: too slow! But at last the rope is freed and he feels sluggishly for a rock to tie it to. The trickle of blood down his cheek smears with rainwater, making it impossible to tell just how much there is - or how deep the cut.   
  
All at once, the world seems to still as if holding its breath, and out into the suddenly muted backdrop cries a voice as a terrible thunder - one word only, but more intense than any thrilling verse. "CAELWEN!" It is Erinstar, soft-spoken and reserved, though neither of these does he portray now.   Sparing no time for thought, but springing into action immediately instead, his left hand intertwines swiftly into the length of hithlain in a makeshift loop as he simply leaps backwards from the cliff face into a reckless free-fall. Past the ridge where Lothdaimoth lies he flies, arcing subtly as the rope begins to straighten, swinging down towards Caelwen at a haphazard angle. Still, such risks are not taken without price, and even as he begins to near the water on his path, the canyon narrows and the Herald's margin for error grows too thin. A muted crunch is nearly lost upon the cacophony of nature's fury, and the fool hero rebounds from the jagged canyon wall with a gasp of shock of pain, cut short abruptly as he plunges into the river at last and is dragged through the torrent towards the flailing potter with only minimal control.   
  
Caelwen's face, small and pale and upturned, is frequently swamped by dirty wavelets and pounded on by the unrelenting storm. She coughs and gasps, sucking desperately at air whenever the chance is given to her. Her bright eyes are terror-stricken, pointed at the sky but unseeing, and briefly focus without comprehension on the Herald's form when he flies over her. Her ears are underwater; it is doubtful she heard his cry or anything else, save for the rush of the creek.   
  
A shadow moves across the path, grows larger and abruptly turns into a flying Herald. Complete bewilderment freezes Lothdaimoth in place, only his eyes move to follow this unexpected apparition until it too disappears into the creek. But it is only a brief pause before his hands begin to move again, testing his chosen rock and tying the rope securely around it. A tug for stability, the other end wrapped around his chest; and he begins his own descent. Much slower, and under his own control (mostly at least), he slips and slides down the rocky wall, muddy hands clenched on the thin grey line. Reaching the roiling waters at last, Lothdaimoth stops, feet braced against the rock, to look behind him. Long minutes pass as he searches the muddy creek for Erinstar and Caelwen, but finally blurry eyes focus on a bobbing figure. And he carefully makes his way along the boulders that used to tower above the water but now are nearly covered by froth and swirling mud.   
  
Gritting his teeth as he pulls himself up over the surface of the raging waters, Erinstar emerges with barely enough time to push off a jutting spire of rock towards Caelwen, narrowly missing a second collision as he tightens his grip on the straining hithlain in determination. The river begins to part as he nears the floundering maiden however, split by the submerged outcropping upon which she is snagged. For a moment it seems as if the Aracarach will be swept right past, but at the last second his free hand darts out and just manages to grab hold of the quarterstaff still clinging across her back and pull himself in to brace upon the stone itself. Shouting incoherently over the raging current, he makes to tie the rope around her waist while struggling to maintain his precarious hold upon the mutual anchor with a planted boot.   
  
Caelwen's head does not turn, but she still seems to know when Erinstar nears her. Beneath the water, her arms fight the current, an incoherant cry of pain lost to the noise. Her hands find him, and both tangle fistfuls of his tunic. She clings to him with a panic-driven strong grip. Terror washes off her like waves of heat from an oven.   
  
Now and then a hand is lifted to Lothdaimoth's head, and he stops, swaying a bit. Still, while the drama continues behind him, he has managed to work his way along the shore until he is actually a little downstream of the other two. From the end of the rope, he unwraps several yards before tying a firm knot that will leave his arms free. A few swings for momentum, and the rope is sent flying through space towards Erinstar with naught but a hoarse wordless shout to accompany it.   
  
Cringing as Caelwen jars his fractured rib-cage, Erinstar nevertheless remains intent upon his task. Finally managing to secure the line around her, he wraps one arm around her torso and dives underneath the waves once more to free her legs with as much haste as he dares. Once pulled free, he surges up from beneath the waves and pushes off towards the bank where Lothdaimoth lies in wait, grasping at the second rope with his free hand as he struggles to swim against the rush of water under so much weight and pressure...   
  
The rope tightens with a jerk as it takes the weight of bodies; and Lothdaimoth gasps as it cuts into his middle. Both hands curl around the line and leaning a bit forward, he creates enough slack to wrap it around one and begin to pull. The rain pours down relentlessly, filling the air with nearly as much water as is in the creekbed. And still pulling with all his strength, the counsel braces both booted feet against a rock and leans backward. The rising waters snatch at his legs, swirling up to his knees.   
  
Caelwen only reluctantly reluctantly releases Erinstar's tunic to allow him to free her legs, then flails for him again as she is suddenly free. She pulls herself close to him, and after a moment of confusion, begins to kick alongside to help swim, her face a mask of pain. Struggling against the pressure of the waves, the stone wall coming closer.. The rope suddenly tightens, and they swing to the bank. The Cennan finally releases the Herald to grasp at the stones, body trailing behind her still.   
  
The rope slackens and almost immediately the water grabs it and whirls it downstream. Ignoring it, Lothdaimoth crouches down and reaches out for Caelwen's hand. The line around his chest goes taut, creaking a little as it takes much of his weight, but finely wrought elven rope will not break under this slight strain. Of more danger is that he might slip again on the uncertain footing of loose pebbles and slimy stone. When his cousin is safely atop the rock, and clinging to the rope, he turns to aid the Herald.   
  
With the final reserves of strength and stamina spent just to reach the river's rising edge amidst the relentless battering of the rapids and the weight of both armoured bodies, Erinstar finally looses his grip upon both lady and line as soon as she is taken into the Counsel's hold lest he drag them all assunder. Stormy eyes meet with Lothdaimoth's for but a shattered second, unspoken words written amidst their clouded depths, and then he is gone. Only white foam remains, flecks of crimson lost swiftly upon the waves as the dark figure of the Lady's Herald is carried away by the unforgiving Gladden. It thus that the proclaimed Hand of Fate falls unto its own, and the destiny of the Deathless lies once again in the hands of Mandos. Only time and prayers will tell the difference now...   
  
Caelwen just huddles atop the boulder, head bowed, breath shallow and careful. She turns, late, and flails toward the Herald when he slips, a pained cry hurling from between her lips. She nearly slips away again, but halts her slide with her hands scraping on stone. She stares numbly at the spot in the swirling, swollen waters where Erinstar /should/ be, and finally turns to Lothdaimoth with a sob wrenching her throat, eyes wild.   
  
The Herald looses his grip, being pulled away by the hungry waters just as Lothdaimoth reaches a hand to grasp his. This second blow is almost too much, and he rocks back on his heels as if the shock is actually physical. When he straightens, he seems shrunken, older in more ways than one. Anguish flickers in dark eyes, deepening the haggard lines of his white face. Staring helplessly downstream, his gaze jerks from water to rock to wall. But here the stream widens, or the canyon narrows, for the boulders that have brought him safe thus far disappear. From sheer rock wall to sheer rock wall, the creek boils and whirls - there is no passing. Finally, he turns to Caelwen. "We must climb up. There is no other way. Then..." His voice catches raggedly and he swallows, eyes closing for a moment. "Then we can .." But he cannot continue. Instead, he takes a single watery step towards his cousin and wraps his arms about her.   
  
Caelwen's arms, covered in rent cloth and flesh mildly rent beneath, wind around Lothdaimoth. As she has done so often before, she presses her eyes to his shoulder and sobs, rain running down her skin and tears wetting her cousin's raiment. Her weeping is an odd mixture of shallow, careful breathing, shrieks of pain and wails of heartbreak. "I am sorry!" Her words bubble wetly.   
  
His own arms tighten around her thin shoulders, and resting his cheek against sodden copper hair, Lothdaimoth shuts his eyes. A single tear seeps between closed eyelids and trickles down his cheek, lost at once among the raindrops that wet his skin. It is long before he can speak, and then he says no more than, "Twas not your fault". And putting her gently from him, he turns blindly towards the rope.   
  
Caelwen's lips move in speech when she is placed away from Lothdaimoth, but too quiet to hear. Her hands begin a ginger exploration of her own torso, and she sobs anew when she touches her ribs. She straightens to follow him, and the cousins continue on their nightmarish journey.


	4. Searching

_The painful, dangerous, slow climb back up to the path is over. Lothdaimoth has found a small alcove in the side of the gorge - where a tiny waterfall trickles down the crack at the back, makes its way across the path and falls into the raging torrent below.  Or at least, most of the time it is tiny.  Now, even this finger of water has swollen to nearly a stream.  But there is a little room in the rocks beside it - and it is surely safer than anywhere else!_

_The elder elf wraps Caelwen in her cloak.  "Sleep," he whispers.  "I must go - "  His voice breaks, and he turns away, hurrying as fast as he might; as fast as is safe.  Erinstar...!  Surely, he has managed to find a hold in the rocks.  Surely, he is safe._

_Back down the path that they had so recently come up; and this time watching the river below instead of the rock at his feet.  But unburdened by his pack, and urged on by fear, Lothdaimoth dares to go faster.  Down, down... there is nothing but the white froth of the water below, blackish-grey swirls where it slams into the rock wall of the gorge and, thwarted, heaves in a backwash for a moment before breaking loose.  Then suddenly... the elf stops and peers down, a wild hope rising, only to be broken in the next moment.  It is only an old tree, two pale branches rising like arms from the water before they are rolled under again.  He spares a brief second to touch his fingers to his forehead, before hurrying on._

_But there is nothing.  The light fades, and the rain begins to ease. Above, there is a break in the clouds and a clear pale blue lit from within by the vanished sun can be seen.  But Lothdaimoth looks only down.  At the end of the gorge, where the waters spread out into the grassy river bottoms, he stops and looks back.  For a minute, he hesitates, then closes his eyes.  When he opens them, there is no more hesitation.  Swiftly, he begins the long trek back to where he has left his cousin._

The light in little strip of sky overhead gradually fades without the usual bravado of sunset. Darker and darker it grows, and a single star peeps in, as though even the beloved gems of Elbereth are choked and stifled outside of Lorien. The complaint of the waterfall makes a half-hearted attempt at being peaceful, but ends up just sounding like liquid falling on rocks. Few would notice the lump tossed near the side of the wall, but there is a figure covered in an elven-make cloak. Caelwen sleeps wrapped in her mantle with her head pillowed on her pack. She breathes very slowly and easily, and her freckled and bruised face is half-covered by her hood.   
  
With only the barest shadow of a whisper, a figure slides into the narrow opening from the main canyon. A pervading miasma of despair nonetheless radiates from him; seen perhaps in the slope of shoulder, the line of neck. Despite the dimness, and the concealing properties of the cloak, Lothdaimoth's eyes go at once to where his cousin lays. And soundlessly, he makes his way to stand beside her. For long moments he looks down, eyes hidden in the shadow of his own cloak; then he squats and reaches to touch her cheek with one hand. Just enough to feel her breathing, and he is standing again, turning.   
  
Simple easy, calm breaths slip in and out of Caelwen as she approached, and no change is come over her immediately at the touch of fingers on her cheek. Her cousin is already arising and turning away when her brows pinch vaguely together. "Lothdaimoth...?" she murmers, as in a dream. Her eyes open, unfocused, and do not look for him.   
  
A small breath of stale air flows through the narrow cleft, the fading notes of a sparrow's sorrowful song carried along by the wind.   
  
Stopped in midstep, the counsel's eyes shut and a noiseless sigh slumps his shoulders further. In the next moment, he has turned back again and crouches by her side. "Yes." His voice is rough and tight. "I am here. I was just going to - to look again. I came to see that you were all right." No movement is made to push his hood back, and his face remains shadowed, its expression unknown. Only faintly in the depths dark eyes glitter.   
  
Caelwen's head lifts and turns, but her eyes search for a time before they focus on Lothdaimoth, though he is not far. A rather weak groan passes between her lips as she raises herself up on an elbow. A pause. "Oh," she speaks in a tired voice. "I had hoped.. Elbereth. That.. all is well." A sigh, and she lays down again. "Be thou safe." Some real emotion finally enters her tone at this, but her lashes drift downward and she drifts toward sleep again.   
  
Lothdaimoth freezes. For long moments, no movement, no sound - only the faintest rise and fall of his breath. His head turns to look back towards the canyon's mouth, and he sways towards it - body driven by the intensity of the fae's desire. But then his hand goes out to her shoulder. And forcing his voice to gentleness, he says, "Caelwen. Is ought the matter? I .. shall I stay with you a while?" Despite himself, a second desperate glance is sent downstream; where, surely a broken body lies, perhaps yet breathing - one he will find if only he searches hard enough.   
  
A breath taken. Another one. Perhaps she does not hear. But finally... "Nay," Caelwen murmers. "'Tis important. Find him." Here she stills again, breath growing slow and deep, but her hand lifts, struggling against the lethargy. Her fingertips brush against the back of Lothdaimoth's hand at her shoulder. The young Silvan's voice drops to a small whisper, difficult to hear below the waterfall. "You'll come back?"   
  
"Of course." Yet he lingers, torn between rising worry and an anguished urgency that will not be denied. "I must find him. Tis unlikely, but what if he lives? I cannot give up while there is the slightest hope." His voice begs for understanding, for acceptance. But he cannot wait any longer. Compelled irresistibly from within, he straightens and takes a step away. Over his shoulder he repeats. "I will return. I swear it." And the weight of this new vow - its keeping under no power of his own - rests almost visibly on his shoulders as he merges again into the darkening shadows and disappears.   
  
Caelwen remains completely still after Lothdaimoth leaves, and for a long time she melds into the boulders and stone as easily as if she were made to lie here with them. The storm has blown away, and more stars twinkle on, one by one shining down into the cleft from far above. Finally, one winks on and peers at the young elf so far from home, and traces the path of a tear that leaks from the corner of her eye, crosses the bridge of her nose, and drops to the ground in silence.

_His hands shake as he ties the rope to a twisted pine, growing out of the rock itself, and he forces himself to take care, though all the time the pulse pounds in his brain, 'hurry hurry hurry'.  He dare not fall himself, not with his young cousin injured and alone._

_Back down the cliff, the end of the rope made sure, a second one lashed here just above the water, the end of it tied about his waist.  The roar of the flood beats at his ears, drowning him in sound.   With agonizing slowness, Lothdaimoth picks his way along the rocks, checking each eddy, each crack, each place where debris has piled on itself._

_The water is nearly black now; even the light of the stars barely seems to touch it.  But the elf continues his search undaunted; what is night to one whose forebearers lived under these stars, not knowing sun or moon?_

_*fae = spirit_


	5. A Terrible Choice

Yellow light instead of grey pours into the little canyon, but that (and the lessened amount of water, gone as abruptly as it came) is all that differs from the place a day ago. Still the stream and waterfall gossip one to another, and still the stones and grass keep their secrets, and still an elven cloak hides an elleth. Indeed, Caelwen lies in nearly the exact same position she was in before, although a hand lies open and cupping sunlight, palm marred with bright red abrasions. Her wounds seem healed not at all, the bruises blackening her skin not faded in the least. Calm is her breath-- in and out, in and out. It is as though time has stopped for a small part of the Misties.   
  
Indeed, this day might be a repeat of the previous one, for again a shadow passes across the canyon's narrow entrance and starts towards the tiny waterfall. But now the smallest divergence from before is seen. For Lothdaimoth's steps are a little lighter, his hood hangs back to show his face. Under the lines of exhaustion and worry, dawns the smallest gleam of hope. One grey-clad arm tucks around a glittering bundle. "Caelwen!" Swift strides take him to her side. "See what I have ... found." Midword almost, his voice changes and the chainmail falls unheeded as he drops to his knees beside her. Dark eyes fill with fear at the sight of her still unhealed wounds and a hand is laid on her shoulder. "Caelwen!" A shake. Then another, harder now. "You must wake up!"   
  
Caelwen rocks with the jostlings, no expression of pain or anything else given at having her broken rib so jarred. Time passes, or doesn't-- it is hard to tell here. Fiery brows, one marred by a small scrape, gently almost draw together. Her lips part a little, and she again grows still. Nothing can be sensed from her.   
  
Shaking isn't working. Lothdaimoth's brows pinch together in an anxious frown, and almost without thought his hand moves to her forehead. His gaze unfocuses, eyelids droop and shut, and worry deepens between his eyebrows. For a minute, his eyes open, looking to something beyond, and then shut again. Beneath his breath, although it is heard only as the memory of a song swirling green with what remnants of hope he can summon through the darkness of the spirit, he begins to hum.   
  
For a long few minutes, still there is nothing. But then something undefinable makes a brief stirring below Lothdaimoth's hand, and Caelwen's eyes open, green to green song. The normally bright peridot orbs seem blind and shuttered still, and again her lips move. Fiery brows move even closer together, her face settles into a listlessly confused expression.A word forms on those softly moving lips, an order put to her rhythmic breath. "...Lothdaimoth?"   
  
So soft the voice that speaks his name, yet Lothdaimoth's eyes snap open almost before the word is given breath. As if her spirit has called to his from some deep and hidden place, making sounds that fall on the body's ears unneeded. "Caelwen." With desperate effort, he keeps his voice calm and quiet. "Wake up, mellon." Still under all the song continues, tainted with relief now.   
  
Caelwen keeps half-sinking back, then pulled up again by her cousin's song, a little dance that does not show as movement. "Why?" she murmers during a more lucid moment. "Do you need me?" Her eyes half-close as though to sleep again, and then open and nearly focus on his knee. "I miss you." A wince of pain, and she shutters her gaze again.   
  
Dark eyes take in her unhealed state and he is silent for long moments, head bent, shoulders bowed. At last, he forces himself to speak. "Yes." By what effort of will, he keeps the anguish that tears his heart from sounding in his voice, none may know. Still, the words falter a little despite all he can do. "We.. we must move on. Can .. can you get up?" Now a despairing glance goes to the forgotten chainmail, before he rips his eyes away.   
  
A long pause. "Is aught the matter?" Caelwen queries peacefully, lips scarce moving with her speech. Another long pause-- everything about her is slow, as though her very fea was wading through honey. "I think I can get up, if you need me to." Her hand twitches, her arm shifts down. Elfstone eyes open again, her brow furrows in concentration. She whispers, "I'm having a hard time remembering my body. Just.. a moment."   
  
Caelwen's last words double and re-double the fear lurking in Lothdaimoth's eyes. And again it is long before he can answer. "No," he whispers and is silent again. Then, perhaps unable to bear it any longer, he stands and turns away; the long muscles down his back bunched, his shoulders tense. Still more minutes pass silent and slow, but when he turns again to her nothing of his inner turmoil shows. Indeed, his face is blank, expressionless; but his words are gentle. "You must get up. It is time to go."   
  
Caelwen manages to slip an arm beneath her, and prop herself up on an elbow. Her eyes blink repeatedly, lids pinching shut, as though she is having a hard time focusing. A palm pushes against the ground; she laboriously raises herself to a near sitting position. "I think I'll need help to stand." Tears gather in her eyes; she blinks, as though surprised at them. Her voice is calm, unworried. "Are you sure naught is wrong? There is..." she shakes her head vaguely. ".. something."   
  
This time her question goes unanswered, save for a hand stretched down to grasp hers. As the sun rises towards midday, its rays creeping down rock walls and across meager grasses. The narrow canyon brightens; the waterfall splashes its cheerful song, spray cast high and sparkling in the light. The brightness does not seem to reach so far as Lothdaimoth though - for although he stands in the full light of day, a darkness hovers about him. "Come," he says. "We must go."   
  
Caelwen grasps Lothdaimoth's hand weakly, and uses this for balance as she reaches up to curl her other hand about his elbow. She stands, quite unsteady, and leans against him in a moment of silence, regaining her bearings. "My pack.." A deep breath is taken, then cut off suddenly by a whimper when her pain reaches her. Her fingers tighten.   
  
Lothdaimoth's arm curves around her back, holding her until she gains her balance. Then a tentative step away, watching her carefully, before he bends swiftly for her pack and cloak; and Erinstar's armor. Chain is stowed in his own pack, hers strapped on his back above; and he returns to his cousin's side. Draping her cloak over her back, he reaches for her small hand to draw her after him down the small crevice of a canyon.   
  
Caelwen's step betrays very little of the easy, natural grace that should be her birthright as a Quende. Steps plodding, swaying, uncertain, she holds tight to Lothdaimoth's hand and walks behind him. "I wish you weren't so sad..." her words trail. Her ageless, bruised features set in a determined light, and she speaks again. "You know, I always wanted to play with your bow when I was little, but I was too afraid to ask." She stubs a toe on a rock and stumbles.   
  
Slowly, so slowly, they two move across the rocky ground, barely damp now. The air so high in the mountains holds a hint of chill even in midsummer. Lothdaimoth's face hardens, the muscles of his jaw jerk and clench, at Caelwen's words. And when they reach the main trail, he stands looking down towards the fateful creek. Little sign remains of the furious cauldron that boiled that but days past; only drifts of broken wood here and there. Grimly then, he turns and starts again of their interrupted journey to the pass, by necessity (the path is too narrow for two to walk abreast), letting loose of her hand. "Hold to the pack." This is all he says.

Caelwen sways upright as Lothdaimoth pauses, not looking downward at all. When her hand is released, she braces herself against the cliff-face, reaching a hand out to clutch at his pack as she is bade to do so. She does not attempt to talk again, walking behind him, but oft pauses, leaning against the wall again with sagging knees. At last, a low, far-away murmur is heard from behind against the shuffling of their feet on the path. "I am sorry. I don't.. I mean, I know the words are a poor fit to all this, but.." She scrapes her hand unmindfully against the stone in her struggle to keep to her feet.   
  
One step, another. Sunshine pours heatless down, creating stark patches of shadow and light. Still Lothdaimoth picks his way upward until it seems he means not to answer her at all. But then, uninflected and quiet, comes a single word. "What?" And he stops for a few minutes, palm against rock before continuing.   
  
Caelwen shuffles tiredly after him, finally finding a pattern again in walking, frequently unsettling pebbles to bounce behind her. The weak, thin light finds the bright hair of the younger cousin, and it shines with more life than what she has, dust glittering in the curls. When Lothdaimoth stops, she still takes another shuffle or two, then leans against the wall, pressing her temple to stone. She rests a while before replying. "If you're angry with me, please don't yell at me until we're off this path. I don't think I could stay standing, mellon." Glittering tears startle her, and she blinks the shining drops away.   
  
Unseen by the one behind him, Lothdaimoth's eyes shut and a wince of pain crosses his pallid face. "I am not angry." Still his voice is the same: quiet, emotionless. "I will not yell." Just ahead of them, glimmering with a silvery sheen in the sunlight, a thin greyish line threads along the cliff side. Four steps take the counsel up beside it and his hand closes gently around the rope. Turning just a little inwards, he bows his forehead against the canyon wall, careless of stone or mud or twig. Long black hair, tangled and rough from days of travel slides over his shoulder and screens his face from view.   
  
As Lothdaimoth steps forward, Caelwen gives up and slides down the wall to her knees, clumps of dirt showering over her and little plants settling in her curls. She stares at the Counsel's legs without seeing them, and allows him a bit of silence. Her eyes unfocus before closing, copper lashes still clean against her bruised and freckled cheek. "I don't know why you want us to leave, cousin, but I think I could make it back to the other canyon on my own," comes her small voice. "I think I could wait for a long while yet. And I really hate being such a burden." Her hands brace before her on the path.   
  
Of the emotions which roil beneath the surface, none show on Lothdaimoth's face as he turns it towards Caelwen's huddled figure. So little shows in his expression that his visage could be carven from the stone he leans against. But grief flickers deep in his eyes before it is ruthlessly banished. And still the same calm, toneless voice winds its way through the distant hum of creek and waterfall. "You are ill. Your wounds do not heal as they should. We must get to Imladris." His gaze falls to the rope he yet holds and a spasm twitches the edge of his mouth. The slender bit of hithlain is laid to rest against the chill rock wall, and the counsel turns away. "Come, cousin. We must make haste."   
  
But Caelwen does not see Lothdaimoth's stoic features, for her eyes yet remain closed, head propped up against the rock wall as comfortably as if 'twere a pillow. Tears are still caught in her lashes, but even these are in rest as they do not fall. Despite her seeming rest, she still speaks in a thick voice. "I would fix this if I could, but I don't want to talk about things bad for you." A sigh. "I'll go, as you say." Some time still passes before she moves again, slowly bracing herself against the wall to stand. Embracing the stone, she shuffles finally toward him, eyes opening again, though still unfocused.

At last the narrow twining pathway rises out of the canyon and flattens out. The thin fine layering of pine needles makes no noise at all beneath Lothdaimoth's feet as he crests the ridge and comes to a halt. His shuttered gaze turns behind him and notes Caelwen's halting movements. "Rest here," he says flatly. "We will go on in a little while."

Caelwen's own step sifts through the pine needles loudly, and it is only a few footsteps from the wall that she sinks to her knees again, eyes closing as she starts to gratefully fade away again. She catches herself with a start, a shrill mountain breeze blowing around them, and looks vaguely for her cousin. "Will you sit near me?" she asks, turning and managing to sit herself up. "When last did you rest?"   
  
Lothdaimoth is already several yards away along the edge of the plateau. Dark head bent, his eyes scan the cliff intently. Caelwen's question goes unheard. Or so it seems, but a little while later, he calls back to her with no more volume than necessary to be heard over the ceaseless slur of the wind. "I will sit with you in just a minute. First, I must.. I must find the way." Further among the trees he goes, now crouching, now straightening and taking another step.


	6. Seeking the Lost - Interlude the First

_Erinstar lifted a hand to acknowledge Galindrion's final cry to him, and started westward.  The others of their small party passed him one by one; faces that were white glimmers in the darkness turning to watch him go.  At the last lingered Tiinwaia, walking slowly, as if the very ground itself caught at her feet and kept her behind - it is her brother and cousin who are there, somewhere, lost in the wild night and pursued now by the remnants of the wolf-pack. Alone._

_As he passed her, Erinstar said gently, "Go.  I shall find them and bring them."  She nodded mutely, rain mingling with tears on her pale face, and went on, vanishing into the darkness behind him._

_The Herald moved lightly and swiftly into the night, until he reached the edges of the burned grass.  There were still a few flames low and flinching before the wind, but they were being snuffed swiftly by the rain which even then was lightening a little.  "At least, it's no longer like standing under a waterfall," Erinstar thought.  The elf stopped there, looking and listening intently - somewhere in the distance westward, he heard a faint yelp, and then a long howl.  For a minute longer he waited, scanning the land around him, the great sword naked in his hand, and then he began to walk through the charred grass._

_Though the wolves seemed to be to the west, he dared not go there at once; but bent close to the ground, searching - little showed save paw prints.  But there was a corpse, the arrow that stuck out of its gut was surely one of Lothdaimoth's.  Erinstar knelt, laying his hand on it - yes.  It had been shot from the northwest.  He heard another faint howl, and started to run._


	7. Seeking the Lost - Interlude the Second

_In the darkness, in the rain, he must have missed them.  Erinstar cursed his luck as he crossed the river for what must have been the 400th time.  And now, he daren't run for fear of missing any small sign._

_The grass waved knee-high and golden-green around him.  Reeds whispered in the breeze along the muddy banks of the Anduin.   This time the elf walked right along the bank, his keen eyes studying the ground.  It is soft here, there may be something... There.  He stooped and studied the mud.  A fox... two deer - a doe and a fawn... but there - yes, he was certain.  They had stopped here to drink.  For a minute, he stands motionless, letting relief course through his mind.  They were alive.  He had thought they must be - there were no bodies anywhere that he had been, nor any vultures gathering overhead - but it was good to have it confirmed._

_Good.  What a pale anemic word for this welcome flood of joy.  They had come this far, they must be heading for the pass. Erinstar turned and sprinted back towards the fords.  Splashing hastily through the sun-warmed water, he crossed the river for the four hundred and first time, and then paused.  Which way would they have gone?  He hadn't seen any signs at the mouth of the gorge where the Gladden came spilling forth.  Had Lothdaimoth been that way before, or would they try the higher path; steeper and longer, but more easily followed.  He hesitated, then started up the long slope that would bring him out atop the cliffs.  Even if they hadn't come this way, he should be able to see them if they were on the lower path._


	8. Eagles!

To the east, the Misty Mountains end in a steep escarpment, a tangle of cliffs, ravines, and steep slopes too precipitous for anything but mountain goats. The plain continues in all other directions, an endless expanse of scrubby grassland. Icy winds blast down from the mountains and sweep monotonously across the plains.   
  
From the east comes light, wan and pink and cut jagged by the mountains. Slim fingers of dawn cut across the sky, and one by one the stars are cut down by the battle of morning, until only a few are left to the West. The winds sigh and tickle the grasses or slip beneath the brush. Two slim figures walk with their back to Anor and the Misties, cloaked against the sharp breezes that would slip through the weave of cloth. Their shoulders are bowed, and the smaller one leans heavily on a staff, stepping with difficulty, as though old or wounded.   
  
From high aloft, where the air is colder but the sunlight brighter, the elves are watched. Eagles circle lazily, perhaps recently woken from a nightly roost in their nearby mountain homes, yet nothing can crawl unwatched upon the earth when the Eagles of the Lords of the West fly the skies. So far above are they that they seem but specks, certainly nothing larger than a regular bird; yet they are, much so. The largest of them, after watching the elves for a while, breaks off from the others, beginning to circle lower and lower, his shadow growing as he circles, and his feathers catching the light of the sun brightly.   
  
Here among the short grasses of the plains, there is little cover. It is even worse than the grassy lands near to the Gladden River.  Caught out in this expanse of openness, Lothdaimoth cannot relax. Dark eyes jerk constantly from spot to spot, and on the bow that he carries strung and half-raised, his hands knuckle whitely. The whisper of breeze sometimes masquerades as footsteps and then he whirls sharply, bow coming up to shoot. Days of tension have left their mark in the lines on his face and the twitch of muscles. Now and then, he pauses and turns to the shorter elf to see how she is before continuing on the slow tortuous journey.   
  
Circling with the Wind Lord, a lesser eagle of golden hue flies behind him. High through the air, he flies with the wind rippling at his feathers, feeling himself dipping through the slipstreams and rising up again. With eagle vision (literally), he gazes downward, and the minutest of details come into focus under his gaze, magnifying when he deigns to look at them.   
  
The younger elf doesn't turn her head toward Lothdaimoth as he whirls, although a faint tensing might be seen along her shoulders. Caelwen's hood is up, but her mouth might be seen below the shadow, lips parted and careful breaths taken, a small bruise growing green on her chin. Each step is taken with much concentration, a firm grip given to her stave to keep to her balance-- yes, and she of the Firstborn. Suddenly she asks, her voice rough and low, " Do those shadows not trouble you? Here, there it is again, and bigger." But she does not look up.   
  
Lothdaimoth's eyes go to the shadows mentioned and then up. And up. His steps, unminded, slow and halt; and one grey-clad arm lifts to stop his cousin. Tentatively, as if unsure this is not merely some vision, a measure of hope comes to rest on his face. Still he speaks nothing, but stands beneath the great circling birds, the endless bowl of sky and watches.   
  
Hesitating, as though deciding whether or not to descend, the larger of the two shapes at last dives at once down to earth, his shadow growing wider and rushing up to meet him, until he at last touches down, sending up a flurry of dust and stirring more than a gust of wind.  "Ho, Elves!" calls the eagle loudly, his voice booming out across the foothills. "What troubles you? So close to Imladris, the fair folk usually walk carefree and in greater numbers. Yet you have the look of travel weariness about you, and unless I mistake myself, wounded from battle?"   
  
Fatigue sags Lothdaimoth's shoulders, but lowering the tip of his longbow to the ground, he squares them and offers the Wind Lord a short bow. Short lest he fall over from exhaustion, not from disrespect. Louder now, he says, and his voice is flat and emotionless, "I am unhurt." And it may be true, though there are bruises and half-healed cuts on his face. "Caelwen does not heal as she should. Twas not a battle though." A spasm of grief crosses his face and is swiftly banished. The quiet, uninflected voice goes on. "Erin .. Erinstar, I think is dead. I could not find him."   
  
Caelwen slows as Lothdaimoth does, her head finally lifting, bright green eyes peering from within the darkness of her hood. A breath sucks in a nice lungful of dust, even as the gust blows away this hood, revealing a bruised face cramped in a mask of pain as she coughs, whimpering at the end of it. Short, shuffling steps carry her backward and more behind the taller elf, shy glances given both to him and the eagle. Her eyes pinch shut at his words, then open again with pleading. "Have you seen him?" Unlike the dark-haired one, her own voice lifts and falls with deep wounding.   
  
"If not battle," says the Windlord gravely, though not unkindly, "Then something not far from it. We could see you limping from a league above, and no Elf ever had such wounds undisturbed on a walk through the mountains." Looking up, the windlord watches another of his kind descend, as he continues, "I have not seen your comrade; if he is hurt, he may have taken refuge under brush or an overhang of the mountains. We will look for him, if he is there to be found. Can you make it to Imladris?"   
  
Lothdaimoth twists to look at his young cousin. "For myself, I would say yes. Caelwen..?" Now the first variation in his tone, for it rises in inquiry on the name. "Tis not so far now. Can you walk?" Then he returns his gaze to the Eagle. "I like not to impose upon you, but would you take a message to Imladris that we yet live? The others of our party should be there by now." Some small portion of the burden that has lain on him lightens at the windlord's offer. "Erinstar was swept away in the waters of the river." A vague gesture of his head indicates the pass they had just come over. "I could not find his body before - before we had to continue on. If you would look.." Several times he tries to finish, but finally he gives up on further words.   
  
Gwaihir looks away south and west, toward Elrond's hidden valley, and says, "Aye, we can send word to Imladris, and perhaps their folk can come and see to your injuries, and bring horses and supplies. No doubt some time resting in the House of Elrond will see you well again. As for your kinsman... It will be as it can be. Elves are said to be good swimmers. Perhaps the swift waters of the Bruinen have carried him to the valley ahead of you. At worst, he has taken a more direct road to Aman than even I can fly, and he will be nobly remembered."   
  
A small, weary step forward, and Caelwen reaches her hand for Lothdaimoth's elbow. "I have come thus far, cousin," she speaks, voice low and utterly morose. "If you say 'tis not long, then I shall certainly manage." She bows her head again, eyes shuttering, and cups dawnlight to her crown. A little time passes, and she looks up to the Wind Lord. She swallows. "We thank you. We... it is a great thing for you to do this for us."   
  
At Caelwen's touch, Lothdaimoth's arm curls around the younger elf's shoulders and rests there, lightly so as to cause her no more pain. Echoing her words, he nods. "Yes. Our thanks." A small mirthless smile twists his lips. "They will certainly come." Sable eyes now go ever and anon towards the distant hidden valley, before being forcibly and politely returned to Eagle Lord. "And more than thanks, for you do for me what I could not, in looking for my kinsman and my friend."   
  
Gwaihir lowers his head, though it still towers almost a yard over the elves, and says, "If we could, we would carry you to Imladris; yet your lives are not in danger, and we must yet act within the limits set upon us so long ago. We are the eyes of the Lords of the West, not the hands, and are perhaps bound by the Music all the more tightly because of it."  His gaze lifting to the heavens once again, the Windlord lifts his voice again, booming out to echo off the mountains, and says, "Yet I can insure that you are not troubled until help arrives. The Trollshaws stir, and the Goblins creep in the night, yet none will trouble you while you wait for help to reach you. My folk will keep watch from the skies, and I shall come if you are troubled."   
  
Visible weights of anxiety and fear lift themselves from Lothdaimoth's shoulders, and they sag in relief. For a brief moment, his eyes shut; lines of weariness and care smoothing from his face. Once more, he bows. "And again, I thank you. Tis little enough I know, but if ever there is ought I could do for you, tis yours." Gently his hand raises to smooth Caelwen's hair, then drops to her shoulder again. "We will rest here a while then, cousin. I know you are tired of walking."   
  
Caelwen leans faintly against Lothdaimoth, her arm gingerly attempting to go behind his back before stopping halfway as she gasps. But still, she looks up to the eagle. "Ai, mellon, this is so much! We may rest with your help." She looks up to her cousin, a smile almost creaking across her face. "And you may cease your watch." Tears glitter in her lashes like crystal caught in copper, relief sagging her shoulders the least bit.   
  
Gwaihir nods his head gravely to both of the elves again, and says, " I will go, now; and word will be carried to Elrond." The eagle steps back, hopping somewhat awkwardly while on the ground, and leaps up into the air, wings unfurled and flapping swiftly. " May the hand of the Sulimo shelter you, and keep you safe," he cries, before soaring high aloft, until he is again but a speck in the sky far above.   
  
Caelwen draws a great draught of air into her lungs, then shouts forcefully upward, "Namarie!" the word ends with a half-sob, and she falls to her knees, hands sliding down the stave. She huddles there a moment, gasping with pain, then looks above again. "I will not rest unless you do." Her chin is set stubborn, and she searches Lothdaimoth's face.   
  
For long minutes, Lothdaimoth stands gazing after the rapidly dwindling speck of the Windlord; and then his dark gaze goes towards the mountains where they had last seen Erinstar. Remote and pale in the sunlight, at last his face turns down to where Caelwen curls at his feet. With a noiseless sigh, he folds his legs and joins her. Short yellow-green grass spikes along darker green pants; his bow is at last laid aside, the arrow returned to the quiver. And leaning his forehead in his palm, he sits in stillness, bathed by the golden glow of the rising sun.   
  
And the sun rising plucks gold tones from Caelwen's copper hair, and though tiredness pushes down at her back like a heavy stone, she does not lie down. Tears caught in her lashes grow in number with time to slide soundless down the her freckled and bruised cheeks. Finally, her scraped hands raise to cover her face and she begins to sob, gasping now and again with pain and obviously trying to muffle the sounds of it.   
  
Piercing the daze of combined relief and exhaustion, Caelwen's tears finally draw the vintner's head up from its resting place. Long he gazes at her before he reaches out and lays his hand on her shoulder. "Caelwen." Weeks of apprehension, grief suppressed, the endless tearing fear, roughen his voice and catch at the simple words. "What is it, cousin?"   
  
Like a release, like a stream bed flowing over, Caelwen's tears wash her dusty cheeks and wet her dirty hands. "It's just been so awful," her words sound wet. "I'm just horribly glad you don't have to watch anymore. I've hated seeing what I've done to you, the choices I've forced you to make, and I'm glad it's letting up." Her shoulders, stiff and hunching, draw tighter.   
  
Lothdaimoth's hand tightens. "You forced me into nothing. What choices I made were my own." The wash of light across the plains turns them tawny, and where they bunch up against the mountains, dark and light twine in slow sinuous concert. He forces a bit of smile into his voice. "I too am glad to be able to stop for a while and know it is safe."   
  
Caelwen drops her hands, and stares numbly at the shadows stretching before them with gold dawn-light trapped between. She leans a shoulder against him, and slowly turns her stained face to view him. "Ought I to watch at all while you rest?" she queries, sniffles cutting her words and sending twinges of pain to show across her half-shadowed features. She takes a few more shivering breaths, and whispers, "Think you they will find him?" She ducks her chin a little, watching her cousin, and a few more tears slip away.   
  
"No. Lie down, if it eases you. If the Wind Lord said he will allow nothing to molest us, his word will stand." The query as to Erinstar brings a return of shadow to his expression. "I do not know," he says somberly. "I do not know if - if there will be ought left to find. But if any can, it is they." He turns a little and stares bleakly off across the prairies.   
  
Caelwen's sobs quiet entirely, and she kneels there, swaying with exhaustion. After a while, she leans further to Lothdiamoth and kisses him briefly on the cheek. "Don't.. don't think about it overly much, Caranteil," she murmurs, then lies down with a groan and rolls to her uninjured side, her back touching his knee. Her eyes shut and she seeks the comfort of that blank, forgetful spot in her mind, sleep finding her between one shallow breath and the next.   
  
But the vintner remains motionless under the warmth of sun and chill of wind. His gaze resting far distant, thoughts unvoiced marching through his eyes. Only the faintest tightening or loosing of skin and muscle, the shallowest rise and fall of breath, gives proof that he is not suddenly turned to stone. A wisp of breeze ruffles dark tendrils of hair at his temple, playfully covering and revealing the red-lined gash that heals there. Slowly the earth turns, the sun rises and still they remain unmoving.


	9. A Promise Kept:  Interlude the Third

_Dust swirled up; bits of torn leaves and small pieces of other detritus whirling around the front lawn along with it, as the backwash from Gwaihir's wings stirred up a gale.  The great bird folded his wings neatly, and cocked his head, his bright eyes watching the elves that come running._

_"Two of your kinsmen are injured and alone, in the moors to the south of here.  They spoke of another, lost and perhaps dead," the Lord of the Eagles interrupted the greeting the first elf to arrive was giving him.  Erestel blinked, his words cut off mid-sentence, but there was only a moment of hesitation before he turned and called out, "Tell Hir Elladan!  Aid is needed!"  As he turned back to Gwaihir, he muttered to himself, "And if Elrohir hadn't chosen now to go off..."  He shook his head, dismissing the other twin's absence. There was nothing he could do about it, and it wasn't as if the brothers didn't deserve whatever rest they could find.  A small frown grew on his forehead, and he looked up.  "None are missing," he said slowly. "Who are these of whom you speak?  How came they there, in such dire straights?"_

_Gwaihir's head swiveled so that he was looking down at Erestel from the other eye.  "They had the look of those from Lothlorien," he said, and clicked his beak.  "They said there was no battle; none of the evil kindreds followed them." What were the small doings of elves to him, Lord of the Skies? Absently, he preened the feathers of his wing a little.  "We watch. The yrch are troubled, but far to the north; it was not that."_

_It is then that Elladan came running out, looking sharply from Erestel to Gwaihir.  "Alasiel told me..." he started, then turned and said swiftly, "Arathalion!"  The young elf stepped up, and Erestel hurried to repeat what Gwaihir had told him.  Elladan listened, his eyes intent, before looking up at the Eagle Lord.  "They are injured, but not beset, yes?"  A short nod as the eagle confirmed this.  "I shall ride fast and light then," he told Arathalion. "Bring my horse; do not delay.  If the WingLord will guide...?"  He looked up inquiringly, and Gwaihir bobbed his head in assent._

_It was only a short while before Arathalion returned, leading Elladan's favorite mount, and the half-elf leapt to his back.  The crowd that had gathered moved away and Gwaihir spread his wings, crouching before he flung himself into the sky.  The downdraft of his flight sent the wind whirling about the yard again, clutching at hair and clothing and thrashing branches.  Elladan nudged his mount around, and they were gone._


	10. Found!

Caelwen moves gingerly and hesitantly through the tall whispering grass, and leans often on her companion's arm.

Unlike past days, Lothdaimoth's bow is strapped to his back and though he still searches the horizon, his gaze no longer jumps about apprehensively. And again and again, he looks at Caelwen and a small concerned furrow appears between his eyebrows.  "You hurt," he says abruptly.  "We should rest."  The wind is cold and bitter, despite it being summer.

Caelwen shakes her head slightly, wincing.  "No," she says, trying not to breathe deeply.  "I can keep going, a while yet.  Is... is it far?"    
  
Lothdaimoth looks up, and for a minute, says nothing.  For a full day's travel in every direction, the land is bare, open grasslands northward and south, to the west the open road, in the east the mountains loom, shadows ill-boding lengthen in the foothills; scant shelter can be found on any quarter.  At last, quietly, he says, "Not far."  It may not even be a lie.  
  
Northward, a sudden flash of light and colour catches the eye, standing out against the barren land; a rider, alone, atop a white horse; elven eyes might mark him so, and see more still: he is tall, his mail is wrought as if of silver, his face is fair; raven is his hair as it flows unfettered on the breeze. His steed bears him westward with haste, to the road.  
  
The elleth's concentration seems to be all inward, thought forcing each breath in or out as though she would not breathe otherwise. The grasses whisper at her knees and cloak, and she uses her staff like a child testing the bottom of a lake with a stick. Caelwen takes a deeper breath forgetfully, and whines with pain, reaching for her companion's arm, turning her eyes toward him... and then beyond him, thus spotting the rider first despite Lothdaimoth's watch. "Look, look!" she murmers. "We are near..."  
  
The lines of concern return when she clutches at his arm. "Are you.." Lothdaimoth begins anxiously, before her works bring his head up and around, long black hair blowing in the wind. The bright flare of white in the sun draws his eyes immediately. "We are near, as I told you." Dark gaze never leaving the luminous rider, he speaks softly. "Did not the Windlord say he would take a message?"   
  
With speed surpassing haste, horse and rider cross the moors and reach the great west road, only there to stop; the rider dismounting, looking all about him, and low to the ground as if seeking something or someone, or marks of their passing. Finding neither, he climbs lightly atop his bare-backed steed once again, spurring it on with a word, southward and east is he bound; and so, perhaps by chance, toward the two forlorn figures near the mountain's foot, though it is perhaps half a mile or more from the road before he crests a hill and espies them there, visible to him despite the virtue of their garb; he hastens on.  
  
Apple-green eyes never leave the rider, and a true smile slowly spreads across Caelwen's face, distorting old bruises. She slows in her walk, hand tightening on Lothdaimoth's arm. "I think he has spied us!" Words begin to tumble from her mouth. "Do you know him? Did you meet him when last you were here? How close are we...? Will we arrive tonight?" An actual laugh, albeit small and short, springs from her, and her gaze lifts to find an early star.  
  
No laughter comes to brighten Lothdaimoth's face, or smooth the lines of weariness and grief there. Her rush of questions does bring a smile though, brief and humorless though it be. Still they plod onwards through the lengthening shadows cast by the few infrequent shrubs that dare to grow in all this endless grassland. "I do not know." Perhaps his words are ambiguous by design, perhaps he simply hasn't the energy to say anything more.   
  
Closer now; and all the while the quick, staccato beat of his horses' hooves upon the ground growing louder to the other's ears; the rider becomes clearer to see: tall is he, even by the measure of the Eldar, and fair. His eyes are grey as stormy seas, and bright as the star-filled firmament. Lordly, a descendant of chieftains and kings, Son of Elrond. Soon enough, he nears, and checks his horse, and his voice is clear as he calls out: "Ai na vedui Galadhrim! Mae Govannen!" He leaps down to the ground, a flutter of silken cloaks and raven hair.  
  
A quick, fretful glance is slid sidelong toward Lothdaimoth ere Caelwen steps carefully forward, her smile still bright and faintly desperate, teeth clenched against agony. "Mae govannen!" she replies. "We have had a difficult road to walk to come here. I am Caelwen, Indiri o nos Dinlom, and this is my cousin Lothdaimoth o nos Raavindonserke." She attempts a bow toward Elladan, but gasps in pain and holds tight to her cousin's arm to aright herself. Her lips part as though she would say more, but just breathes shallowly instead for the moment.  
  
A swift glance is cast towards his cousin, and worry deepens in Lothdaimoth's face. But he bows himself, more gracefully than she. "Well met indeed, son of Elrond. I will admit to despairing of reaching the haven of your valley." As he straightens, he looks again to Caelwen, his gaze unfathomable. Dark eyes linger on the barely-healed bruises. At his own temple, a thin red line is all the remains of some gash; other bruises and scrapes have all but disappeared. And turning back to Elladan, his voice held tightly in check, he says, "If I might beg of your indulgence to escort my cousin the remainder of the way? She must see a healer."   
  
Concern becomes evident upon Elladan's face; "Of course;" he says, "It is with that purpose that I set out from Rivendell; for Gwaihir the windlord came bearing news of your need. For haste I summoned my steed; had I known your need was so dire, I would have called for more. But he shall bear you, Lady Caelwen, and I shall guide you both, if you will. First though, sit, set aside your burdens, let me look at you; I shall tend your wounds as best I can."  
  
Another glance, eyes faintly narrowed, is shot to Lothdaimoth, but Caelwen's gaze returns quickly to the grandson of Galadriel. "Aye, Lord, and I thank you." Face set against the pain, she holds tight to both her cousin's arm and the staff to lower herself to the ground. Cuts slice her raiment here and there, with matching abrasions and bruises beneath-- on her left thigh is one, and long scratches mar both of her palms. Indeed, she seems to favor her left side entirely, but the worst hurt is not visible, and causes her slow, careful breathing. She casts her stave aside and settles herself gingerly.  
  
Lothdaimoth moves quickly to aid the young elf to the ground, kneeling as he eases her down. Of the packs that he carries, one is slung to the grass beside Caelwen, the other two remain in place. Standing again, he nods. "I am grateful. I myself am uninjured." A step is taken backwards and away, towards the south whence they two had come. "If you will guide her the rest of the way, I will come as I may." The evening sun slants across his face, illuminating it clearly and the flicker of anguish that crosses it to be ruthlessly suppressed. "Erinstar was lost in the flood and I could not find him before we ... left."  
  
Caelwen's head snaps toward Lothdaimoth, eyes wide with alarm pooling within. "You are leaving?" Words rush from her mouth as though she is afraid he will disappear at any moment. "Go to Imladris and get more supplies! And take someone with you, like Galindrion or one of the guards and a healer!" A deep breath is taken, followed by a whimper of pain that dissolves into more speech. "Or if you will not, take all of the lembas from my pack and do not forget my gift to you after the wolf attack!" Shallow, agitated breaths come quick, and tears spring into her eyes as she looks up to her beloved cousin.

"Caelwen," Lothdaimoth says painfully. "Please. You must be calm. I have plenty of supplies, and if it pleases you, I will take the lembas as well." Then he falls silent, watching as Elladan moves to aid his cousin.

In the fleetest, most graceful and silent stream two figures race across the distance from the northwest; horses, elven and unmatched save by the Horselords. From whence did they come? The stock truly must be kin, bred here in northern lands where the sweep of the wind over the mountains is the breath that burns swift through their rippling muscles, poured from determined hooves. And grey clad elves are upon their backs.   
  
"It seems a shadow of ill fortune has followed after your company;" Elladan observes, "But do not despair! It is but a day hence to Rivendell, less on horse, and mine is swift." With that, he kneels before the lady, and lays his hands gently upon her stomach and chest, elegant fingers examining the wounds at length, "You have broken ribs," he observes, "I can do little to set them, but I can lessen your hurt, if you will calm yourself." From within his coats he produces a small silver flask, then hands it to Caelwen, "Drink a little, if you will. It is Miruvor," then he gestures, "Some for your companion, too." Then he returns his hand to the wound; there is something then... some act of grace on his part that even those of the elven-wise might stifle to explain; though it is little to be wondered at in this descendant of Luthien, but the pain might well lessen in Caelwen's side.

He stands, "I have done what I can; remove your mail, and it will ease your breathing;" and he glances northward to the approaching riders, "At least it seems you will not have to travel home alone, now; for if there is still one lost in the wilds, then I shall go to find him. Long have I traveled in these lands and far, and there are few even in Imladris that can surpass my skill at the hunt, save perhaps Gillhach, or Randinen... but they are not here."

Caelwen tears her gaze from Lothdaimoth and takes the silver flask, then sets her face in a grimace of pain at Elladan's first touch, the tears now falling. Ah, but at the second touch, a sigh releases some of the tension in her muscles, and with a mixture of thankfulness and sorrow she murmurs,  "Again, I thank you." She arises, a little more easily than she lowered herself, and takes a deep swallow of the miruvor. "I pray that you do find Erinstar, and quickly, and that Lothdaimoth is kept safe." She attempts another bow, this one a little more successful than the last.

In Lothdaimoth's dark eyes gratitude begins to glow, deepening at the Elladan's final words. "You would come? Indeed, Lord.." but his voice falters. "I am afraid that while I recognize you, I know not which you are.. you are too like your brother."  He barely glances at the onrushing horses before returning his attention to Elrond's son. "I am grateful beyond words for your aid." A harsh indrawn breath, and his eyes shut for a bare second before opening again, the grief in their depths more apparent. "I could not leave her, yet to go without finding him..."

Golden strides the leftmost steed, hooves churning soft grass underfoot as he gallops. The lithe grey-clad figure on his back is bent low for haste. A black cowl is pulled high over his swept blonde hair, fragments of which peek from the shadows as he rides hard alongside his companion. Finally, he draws his fine mount to a whinnying halt, sweeping his legs over and landing soundlessly on the ground near to Elladan. He pulls his hood aside, and is revealed as Erucolindo, Knight of the Gweth Mellyrn.

The other horse, a chestnut brown and black-tailed beauty, leaps over a mid-sized boulder and stops in a swift halt a little ways beyond the others.  In a leap from its back comes Galindrion, a hand sweeping to lower the dark folds of his own hood. Immediately, he takes off at a full run. Bramble or boulder - nothing will stop his tempestuous approach.  Leaping one final piece of rubble, remnant of times long befallen to the dangers that have lingered in these lands, Galindrion falls to his knees beside Erucolindo, his gaze sweeping across each present and tears trickling down his cheeks. Silent still, he makes a weak gesture of blessing, hand to forehead, lips and heart.

Beside him, Erucolindo bows his head for a moment. "It is true, thank the Valar," he whispers.  "We heard of the message the Wind Lord brought, and came full speed on Hir Elladan's tail."

Erucolindo's words bring a tenseness to Lothdaimoth's shoulders and he remains unmoving for several long moments before turning towards them.  But it is to Galindrion that his eyes go. "Mellon, I am sorry..." Quiet, almost unheard, his voice cracks in the midst of speech and he stands silent; head bowed, a tear tracing its lone way down his cheek.  
  
Two of her own people, people whom Caelwen, despite her brave face, has thought she would never see again.  Tears stream down her face as well, low sounds of grief choking her throat. Elladan's flask still clutched in her fingers unmindfully, she steps nearer Lothdaimoth, setting her other hand on his shoulder, and she finally must turn her head and close her eyes.  
  
Galindrion rises in rustle of cloth and jostle of metal upon metal, and closing his cloak tight against the cold, he clasps Lothdaimoth's wrist, his eyes speaking his deep thanks and requiring no further word.  Then, waiting no more, he wraps his arms around Caelwen and embraces her through three slow breaths duration. At last, he wipes his own face upon the fabric of cloak draped over arm, and turns to Elladan and bows - full deep and long. "Daernoss Earendil, greatest of blood and report and first with tender care upon our need. My thanks was yours in greeting, my life is yours for safe-finding. My compatriot is Erucolindo, fine knight of our Order."  His eyes move to Lothdaimoth. "Return with Caelwen into the safety of Imladris. Elladan, wish you to give them safekeeping? I should ask you no more." Humbly his hand returns then to rest at his breast, a deep swallow and penitence swelling in his eyes.  
  
Elladan rises, then, and if with cool regard he observed the exchange between these friends and kin reunited; at the last, he smiles, saying in answer: "Friends in need and kin need ask of naught from the sons of Elrond, nor wonder at their providence, for all is freely given; your lady shall travel to my father's house without need for fear." A few steps bear him aside to his horse, who stands by with breath steaming, a tall white stallion of many hands in height; and he strokes the beast's nose idly, whispering words under his breath. At length, he announces: "My steed shall bear you, Lady; as I have said. He is swift, and will not throw permit you to fall, and knows well the way home." Then he gathers up his cloaks, steel and silver glinting beneath; "Those who will go with you may, if they will, though I do not command it; and I shall look for your friend."  
  
Erucolindo gazes upon the form of Elladan, listening to his words with reverence. Bowing and inclining his head, he adds to Galindrion's thanks, "Indeed, sir. Gracious thanks extend from all our kin at your deeds and words. My heart does leap to meet you, son of Elrond, and to your service do I offer myself." Straightening, he smiles tenderly at Caelwen. "Cry not, mellon, for we come here to find and return you to those you hold dear. And you...", he continues, looking now at Lothdaimoth. "It is with the blessing of the Valar that we find you alive and well. Hopeless hours have been given in search, and now our prayers have been answered." A breeze laps the hair of the Knight as he lays a supporting hand on the shoulder of his compatriot.  
  
Lothdaimoth's head bows and his shoulders slump. Neither Galindrion's handclasp nor Erucolindo's wordless grip bring him ease, rather a deepening of distress. But he bestirs himself after a moment, giving Erucolindo a twisted smile before turning around to look again at Elladan. "I will come with you, lord. Caelwen," an arm is slid about her shoulder, greyness of cloak falling back over grey shirt beneath, "Do you ride to Imladris and await me. See? As you wish, I will have companions and provision for the journey."  
  
With only a small gasp of pain, Caelwen returns Galindrion's embrace, her body shaking with quiet sobs unchecked. As Elladan speaks, she takes shivering breaths to calm herself, then looks over to the fair Lord beside his steed. Her voice is calmer, albeit scarred with with grief and weeping. "My daernoss holds longer memories even than most, and I swear the gratitude of the Dinlym will last yeni nigh-uncounted." Here, a beseeching glance is thrown to Erucolindo, and a smile is half-attempted in return. "It is.. more." With this odd statement, Caelwen sets her head against Lothdaimoth's shoulder even as his arm slides over her shoulder. "I will wait... and you will come after, aye?" Bright eyes are piercing as she looks up to him.  
  
Measuring Elladan's words, gathering his strength all the while, Galindrion allows eyes to fall shut a moment. "You shall not look for my friend alone," he tells Elrond's son.  Then he looks to Lothdaimoth, "Where I failed to protect the Lady nos Dinlom, so now I ask you to continue, my kinsman. Escort her to the valley - Celebedhel waits there, and you may return to meet us if Imladris sends indeed a patrol." Bitterly and crisply cold, the ceaseless wind of the ageless Moors smacks him across the cheek.   
  
"So be it." Says Elladan, "Let us make our partings quickly, for need brooks no delay; and soon it will be dark, and colder still."

But Lothdaimoth shakes his head slowly, dark hair shifting across his back. "The windlords will watch. I cannot go and leave him, Galindrion. Not again." His voice is inflexible, but under lays a depth of anguish born through these last days. "I am coming."  
  
Caelwen takes a few steps toward the horse, then pauses, watching Lothdaimoth  uncertainly. She speaks naught to sway him either way.  
  
And Elladan permits Lothdaimoth this: "It would be well for you to come; for I know not where last you saw your companion, and so precious time shall be saved." He inclines his head toward Caelwen, "You need not fear for the Lady; my horse shall bear her away with speed unrivalled should danger come near, and I saw no rumour of evil in the wide land 'ere I came here. By dawn on the morrow she shall be safe in the valley."  
  
Erucolindo interjects quietly, "I shall escort the Indiri back to the Valley, if she so wishes." He looks to her with twinkling eyes, before bringing the cowl back up around his head. "We have not always seen eye-to-eye, tis true, good lady. But I shall offer myself in complete protection of your well-being, if you deem fit to come with me."  
  
Caelwen twists Galindrion's hankerchief between her hands as she studies her cousin anxiously, fresh tears again brimming. "I do agree that Lothdaimoth would well improve Erinstar's chances, and to the Herald I owe my life." Her voice starts to tremble. "If you would go, Caranteil, then I say aye to it, and pray success." She hides her eyes briefly in the little cloth again, then sniffs and looks up to Erucolindo, "I thank you, my once-knight. Do we walk, mellon, that these three may ride in better haste?" She takes a step towards the Knight, then turns and walks quickly to Lothdaimoth, throwing her arms about him and burying her face in his shoulder.  
  
Again, gratitude joins other less-comfortable emotions written across Lothdaimoth's weary face. He hugs his young cousin hurriedly, and gives a nod of thanks to Erucolindo before his eyes are torn away and returned to Elladan and Galindrion. "We should make what haste we may for already much time has passed since.. since he was lost." The setting sun slides down the arc of the sky, intensifying the bitter chill of the wind. Swayed physically as if compelled by the intensity of his need, the young vintner steps away back towards the south.  
  
"You will ride, lady; for it is better that you go with haste and find healing in my father's house." Elladan bows his head to Caelwen, "For myself, I am fleet of foot at need, and will not tire whilst there is hope still; go on, I bid you!"  
  
Caelwen's embrace was fierce and fleeting. And now she turns away from Lothdaimoth to bow her head to Elladan. "Again I thank you." She then steps up to the tall steed of the elven lord, scooping up her stave in the meantime and securing the flask in her belt. Chin ducked slightly, she looks to Erucolindo. "I do not think I can mount alone. Would you mind giving aid to me, that we might be on our way?"

"Then help I shall provide, good Lady". Aiding the Indiri onto the steed, Erucolindo mounts in front of her. "May Elbereth smile with fortune on your labours", he adds to the party and nudges the horse into a gentle turn northwards towards the Valley that waits them.  
  
Galindrion watches them go before turning to Lothdaimoth.  "We journey into the mountains, ay?"   
  
"Yes." The words are thrown over Lothdaimoth's shoulder. "Twas on our way through the pass." Another step is taken, almost involuntarily; but then he too stops and waits.   
  
"If in the pass it was, then to the pass we shall go;" Elladan declares, then calls to Caelwen and Erucolindo: "Farewell, you both; may your journey be swift and untroubled;" then he looks eastward, and to the mountains that loom before him, and his gaze is met by the unforgiving wind; without word or cry, he sets to a run, and the others follow after, three figures, silver and grey; they fade, then are gone from sight.


	11. To Imladris

_As Erucolindo urged their mount carefully to a higher speed, Caelwen laid her cheek against his back and stared at the passing land.  It undulated, gradually growing higher and higher until the low folds of land turned into foothills and the foothills stretched up into the snow-crowned peaks of the Misty Mountains.  All around them, grass blew in long whispering waves.  It hurt to breathe.  It hurt to move.  It hurt to think.  The young elleth held herself very still.  The cold wind rushed past her face, chilling her skin; but the cold felt good.  It gave her something to hold on to that didn't hurt.  Slowly, she slipped into dreams.  The grass was greener, longer.  Tall men and taller elves strode ghost-like through it, causing ripples like someone wading through water.  Unalarmed, Caelwen watched as one elf, golden hair flowing in a breeze that was blowing the opposite direction as that against her cheeks, lifted his bow and shot an arrow.  In the distance, something fell..._

_"Look, Lady."  It was Erucolindo.  Caelwen blinked, returning to herself, and noticed that the endless moors were behind them.  At their feet, the ground fell steeply away, and down below them, there was a glint of water - a river.  "This is Imladris?" she asked doubtfully.  "It doesn't look like there is anything there..."_

_Erucolindo must have smiled, though she couldn't see his face.  But his voice sounded more merry.  "Wait until we are closer," he advised her.  "Even as the Lady, so does Lord Elrond hide his home from unfriendly eyes."_

_"But we are not unfriendly!" Caelwen protested, and heard Erucolindo laugh. "No," he agreed. "And from here, it is the land itself that bars our sight."  He pointed and she looked along his arm.  "See there?  When we are past that curve in our path, we will see."  She nodded, and pressed herself against his back again with a tiny sigh._

_Slowly, the horse picked its way down the steep winding path.  Caelwen tried to stay alert, to watch for her first sight of this valley; the home of Elrond Half-Elven And wasn't that a strange thing, she thought.  Even if it was Luthien, still.  A human!  Who would wish to ... to join with one of them?  Short-lived, hasty, barbaric people that they were.  Not, she told herself honestly, that she had ever seen one, but her mother had told her, and she had heard tales.  She sighed again and shook herself, but still Erucolindo had to rouse her once more when they reached the valley floor._

_Ahead of them, a green meadow stretched to a slender bridge.  To the west, a clump of birches rustled a greeting in the slight breeze.  It was much warmer here.  "Wait," she said suddenly, and Erucolindo sat back.  The horse stopped obediently, though it turned its head as if asking why they were stopping here. "I wish to walk a little," she said.  "Please - help me down.  I will not be long, I promise.  I only..."  She looked longingly at the birches.  They were not mellyrn, but they were home-like and friendly in this strange place.  "I wish to walk a little," she repeated.  "Among those birches there."_

_Erucolindo turned to look at her, and then, surprisingly without objecting, he lifted her gently to the ground.  Despite his care, her breath caught as the broken edges of her ribs grated together.  "I will go to the stables and come again for you," he told her, an understanding smile in his eyes.  Briefly, his hand touched her shoulder, and then he was gone._

_She stood and watched him until he came to the bridge.  Other elves came up to him then, and without waiting to see what they did, she hurried towards the shelter of the trees.  She didn't want to talk to anyone yet - be they ever so kind. Not yet._


	12. Sanctuary at Long Last

*Note - the two people writing for Olathlinn and Dunedhelgur are ESL, so please excuse any difficulties with their English.  I have corrected the spelling, but that is all.

_Caelwen lingered among the birches, trailing her fingers along their bark and lifting her face, eyes closed, to let the leaves brush over her skin.  The sound of the nearby river was pleasant, if unusual.  At last, though, she felt she could remain hidden no longer.  She stood at the edge of the wood and looked across the small meadow, and took a deep breath.  Time to meet these other elves; perhaps they would not be too strange._

With careful steps, Caelwen makes her way toward the river, and the elves chatting on the bridge. The bridge is of smooth grey stone and seems to have been carved from a single piece, even though it spans over 50 feet. Beneath her freckles or over them lie healing cuts and bruises nearly everywhere exposed flesh might be espied. A shy glance is given to the Quendi on the bridge, and she hangs back a moment, hovering in indecision. A stray beam of sunlight is cast over her to bake more freckles in, and her copper curls flash brightly in it, ere the breeze shifts a leaf and the light is gone again. She bites her lip.   
  
Sitting comfortably on the bridge with her friends, Faerlin smiles at one, "Mae Govannen indeed, Olathlinn. I was speaking of you only a day or two since, looking forward to hearing the verse that you have written." The elleth's hazel eyes flicker to Dunedhelgur again. "There's no need to look so sheepish you know..." Before she goes any further, she spies the quiet and bruised elleth and calls to her, "Mae Govannen to you too - come join our conversation if you will."    
  
While they speak, but before Caelwen gathers the courage to approach them, shades form in the distance; caught by the Forest Shore. Anar's rays seem to have little hold on these shadows, for light can be seen reflected. Yet they bring no darkness, as sweet voices rise to weave verse into the hot air, as if to sooth the sun's fierce mood today. Soon the sources of the song are revealed, a small group stepping out of the treeline. Their garb is all the same, green and grey, bows upon their back. They are of the Eldar, skilled warriors returning to their home. And they generously share the joy this brings them. The tallest of their kin leads them forth; the Hirvaethor Randinen. He, however, is silent, his demeanor grim to match the stern mien. His grey visage easily discovers the elves nigh the bridge, yet he orders his company not to halt.   
  
A flush creeps over the Caelwen's skin like a burn at Faerlin's called greeting, but the same greeting causes her to move forward in her hesitant step. "Mae govannen," she calls out, still shyly. "I could do to listen to conversation. I thank you." A small smile tugs at her lips but does not crinkle the skin at her eyes. She slows as she nears them, and looks from one edhel to another, gaze nimble in tracking the speakers. Then some sound brings her gaze around to watch the warriors for a time. Everything she sees and hears is drunk in with a curious air.

Faerlin nods to Caelwen, pleased that the Galadhrim elleth will join the conversation but the sight of the grim Hirvaethor and his squad makes her frown a little..saying nothing she slips away.

"Namarie," murmurs Caelwen as the elleth who called her over departs.

Olathlinn wrapped in her blanket sit on the bridge *wall*, feet dandling in the emptiness belows. Far below, the river gurgles and rushes on its course toward distant lands. She nod to the approaching patrol."Right on time as usual!" Looking again to Dunedhelgur she smiles and whisper, "I heard you complaining of some pain, I hope it is not my fault that you are like that today?" She is looking a bit worried.

The song of the approaching eldair catches the immediate attention of Dunedhelgur where he stands near the near end of the bridge. "Yes, I did, mellon, but I am fine, thank you," he says to Olathlinn focusing on the returning Squad again. He recognizes Randinen from his tall stature and the bow hanging proudly behind him.. "Mae govannen!" shouts Dune as he waves toward them.

 Randinen's glance rests on the elleth from Lorien. Curiousity bends his brow, as unspoken queries weave themselves into the stern pattern of his mien, until his attention is called for by the greeting of Dunedhelgur. Looking slightly disturbed, the Hirvaethor tilts his gaze to search for the edhel. In finding him Randinen halts, inclining his brow in greeting. The Cunir halt also, behind their Commander, yet in strict gesture he orders them without word to continue. So they march onward, passing the bridge, many of them waving as they pass the ellith and the edhel hither. The song sweeps up once they pass the bridge, a final note sang, ere their voices slowly fade way along with their presence.

Caelwen lifts a hand in greeting to the passing edhil singing and marching by, revealing a palm criss-crossed with abrasions. She misses Randinen's curious glance in this, but again looks to him in curiosity afterwards. Her gaze slides to Dunedhelgur and Olathlinn near where they speak, and again she hovers in uncertainty, before finally taking a silent step or two nearer to them.

Olathlinn nods to each edhel with a smile. Looking at Randinen with a cryptic look, she smiles again, but blushed.  She choose to greet the Galadhrim, whom she spotted previously without being able to approach her.

Noticing the Galadhrim, Olvaristdir Dunedhelgur turned towards her to greet, " Aiya! Elen sila lumenn'omentielvo. Manna esselya melloni? Essinya Eldarestalo*."   
  
"And a good day to you. I am Caelwen o nos Dinlom o Lothlorien," Caelwen replies. One hand clasps the wrist of the other before her belt, and her chin ducks into her chest, eyes wide and faintly startled as Dunedhelgur speaks. Her voice becomes softer, a bit abashed. "I... do not understand. But I am very glad to meet you." Her eyes fly to the river, and she swallows in silence.

"Oh! Lothlorien!" let escape Olathlinn in admiration. "I do not want to be impolite Caelwen, but maybe you have see my mom, or my dad while there? Palanarma and Gwantolor?"  
  
'Speak we now the Elder language?' wonders Randinen aloud, his wonder not having ceased; rather it increased with every speech. Some of his stern manner he forsakes, a glimpse of kindness warming his features. Turns the Hirvaethor to address Dunedhelgur. The tone of the query warrants little reply is needed. And already Randinen shifts his glance to another - eying Olathlinn, 'Your staff is ready, mellon. Speak to the quartermaster if you wish it.' Yet anew his gaze ends curiously with the elven woman from Lorien; apparently he knows her not.  
  
Olathlinn seems suddenly confused:"I never ask for a staff, melon?", she scratches her head."May be did Lindir does it for me, I hope they don't forget to include the Armory of the House on it." She frowns.   
  
Dunedhelgur looks abashed at Randinen's mild reproof, and falls silent.  Just then, Glasiel comes running down to the bridge, carrying her basket of gathered herbs and comes up to him, a merry grin on her face. In her excitement, she barely notices the others on the bridge. " You will never guess what happened. Among the guests from Lorien, I have found us a Cousin! You will have to meet her before they leave." Her eyes shine with the news she shares. Dunedhelgur jumps up and greets her with a hug. He looked at her half puzzled, half amazed of the new cousin she speaks of.  With a puzzled look "Cousin ?" he asked, quiet.   
  
Glasiel blinks, suddenly noticing the other edhil on the bridge (and indeed it is hard /not/ to notice them now, especially Randinen and his tone). "Oh! My apologies," she murmurs to the others. "I'm afraid in my excitement, I didn't notice anyone else." She smiles again, trying to be calmer.  
  
A laugh-- a little subdued, but merry nonetheless-- sparkles like glass shattering in sunlight. "I did not know so many held kin in both the Imladhrim and Galadhrim!" Caelwen admits to Glasiel.  "Who is your cousin, if I may be so bold as to ask?" To Olathlinn her attention is given, next. "Nay, I do not know them, although Palanarma sounds familiar. What do your parents do, mellon?"  Slim, bruised fingers trail to the dagger at her hip, and the Cennan traces her fingers over the hilt.

"Oh, my mother is a healer back there and my father draws map." answer Olathlinn. "They conduct me there some time ago to be with my sister Silivren, may be you knows her then?" then her eyes shadows.   
  
"Mellon from the Dreamflower..." speaks Randinen, inclining his head to Caelwen, "Ere you continue, might I propose to bring you to our Healing Halls? You are injured, clearly, and so it must be you who the Herion Elladan was sent after; or at least one. Was it he who sent you to the Vale?" Stepping forward the Hirvaethor draws closer to the Galadhrim. "I beg forgiveness to tear you away from acquainting yourself with those who have kin in your own land, yet we will not have our guests suffer the inconvenience of cuts and bruises to make their stay that less pleasant." His tone is calm and warm, despite the light frown which he holds. Then to Olathlinn: "I know only I was asked to carve a staff with the Arms of the House. So I can assure you the arms are not forgotten."

Usually such details never escaped Dunedhelgur's eyes, but how did he missed her wounds so obvious he began to wonder. "Mellon, please accept my/our sincere apology to overlook so obvious those wounds that you now born. Please us put some salve on them at least." he said half apologing, half proffering. "My sister will see that your wound are properly cleaned and dressed." gesturing to Glasiel.

Glasiel blinks again at Randinen for a moment, then her eyes turn to look more closely at the visitor. Her eyes widen in alarm. "Indeed, the Arphedor is correct, and much more observant than I, in my excitement. But smaller things can wait... you should be seen to. Will you come to the Healers? I can show you the way, and indeed it would be my honor to assist with your needs."   
  
"Lord Elladan did send me here," Caelwen replies, her gaze slipping toward Rhandinen, her eyes like clover bruised and torn. "He saw to my wounds when he found us. And I am the only one of the lost who is here now." Her voice lifts higher with a small measure of distress leaking in by the end, and the Cennan's breath comes quicker, agitated. A low whimper of pain curls beneath a breath, and she half-turns away as though ashamed. She wraps her arms gingerly about herself. A minute later, Her face turns back again to Olathlinn, flesh pallid beneath her wounds. "I do not know Silivren. You must pardon me-- I have lived only two yeni and mostly know Crafters and Dinlym." Her head bows a little, curls tumbling down as the gems on her brow glitter. "I will go to the Healers if you wish, mellyn... though the Lord Elladan did say that he could not bind my ribs, so I thought naught could be done."

Olathlinn blushes and shadow gain more in her eye. She feels ashame to have press the elleth with so many question when she is hurt, empty to don't have answer, but also in pain in her empathic way to feels what she is felling.   
  
"His skills are limited in the area of healing," quips Randinen in a still friendly voice. A gentle hand he places upon the elleth's shoulder, "Surely you expect not our Healing qualities in the field to equal those we harbor at home? If your need be grave, the Heryn Arwen or even the Herion might aid you. But please, come, if you will; at least it will bring me ease of mind to see you in safe hands." And while he speaks thus, a sharp eye goes out to the other quendi. "Normally we see our injured guests more quickly to our Halls, forgive us the inconvenience. My own company was delayed whilst returning with haste to find you."   
  
Glasiel flits a glance of apology toward Randinen, nodding at his words before turning her full attention to the wounded elleth. "Indeed it was shameful of me to miss your needs, whatever my cause for excitement. And now, please, let me make it up to you by offering you my assistance?" She offers a hand to the visitor, and turns toward the House, ready to lead the way.   
  
"I thought.. well, I really did not know," Caelwen murmurs as a kind hand is lain on her shoulder even as another takes her own hand. "I did think that the Hiril's grandson would surely know all that your people do of the craft." She trembles, words shivering one over another, and lifts her hand to rub at her eyes, hiding them. Her shoulders hunch; a choking breath swallows tears and earns a tight wince from her. She shakes her head, curls bobbling, and drops her hands. "Namarie!" she offers to those left behind in a subdued voice. "I am glad to have met you." And she walks where the two lead her.   
  
 _Slowly, Glasiel led Caelwen away from the bridge.  Randinen followed, leaving the others behind. As they went, the healer asked small questions of Lorien, tactfully saying nothing of any of Caelwen's companions. Her eyes catalogued the visible injuries, but later would be soon enough to speak of those. She was already considering the small room the visitor could rest in, while her wounds healed._  
  
*Hirvaethor = Master of warriors

*transl: Hail! A star shines on the hour of our meeting. What is your name? My name is Eldarestalo.

*cennan = potter

*Dinlym = those of the family of Dinlom; a House of elves living in Lothlorien.


	13. The Lady and the Healer

Opening the door quietly, Glasiel leads the way over to a bed near the hearth, and smiles at Caelwen. "Please, rest here while I gather supplies? Try to make yourself as comfortable as your wounds will allow. Are you feeling much pain? If so, where is it worst? And have those cuts been washed and treated once already?"  She speaks calmly, in 'healer' mode, and seems to have forgotten the (usually unnerving) presence of Randinen. While she asks her questions, she is gathering bandages, jars, pouches, and other equipment from a large cabinet nearby.  
  
Caelwen trails in Glasiel's wake, and stands a moment before the cot ere she settles herself with ginger, slow motions upon it, a groan coming unbidden from her lips. She sits a while, eyes pinched shut, fingers gripping the edge of the bed, ere lifting her lashes to look for the healer. "My ribs," she replies shortly. "Hir Elrond's son said my ribs were broken, but I think I already knew this by the pain of it. It hurts to breathe, if I am not careful. I needed help to change my clothes." Her wounded hands clench into fists, and she looks to the hearth with a determinedly vacant glance.   
  
Dunedhelgur, having left the company at the bridge and followed them unseen to this place, slips into the infirmary and walks gingerly over to where Caelwen is resting while his sister makes preparations to apply herbs on her wounds. He nods to her again, and asks "How are the Mellyrn doing nowadays?" with smile on his face.   
  
Caelwen smiles weakly, but her gaze is almost grateful as she looks up to Dunedhelgur. "The same as ever they have been since my birth. When I left, the flowers were giving way for new leaves, and the gold underfoot was growing a bit faded and dirty. I miss fair dreamflower a great deal." Her voice grows softer. "My home is in a tall mallorn near the top of Caras Galadhon, with grapevine twined 'round the bole and limbs, and my own talan has a mossy carpet." She speaks wistfully, and almost as much to herself as to the edhel, as though the sound of her own voice may crowd away thoughts.   
  
Randinen lingers outside the door a few minutes, before coming in, where he assumes a post nigh the door. Folding his arms, he is but a silent spectator now, surveying the room, frowning lightly at Dunedhelgur's entrance.   
  
Glasiel smiles approvingly as her brother makes an effort to distract the patient from her discomfort. She finishes gathering her supplies, and carries them on a tray, setting them down next to the cot and kneeling down for closer inspection of wounds. She lets them talk while she looks over Caelwen, paying close attention to her hands and arms, and being especially gentle when checking the rib area. She hums lightly while she works, a song of healing for the fea. Finally looking up at Caelwen's face, she asks softly, "Please, can you tell me something about these cuts? How they were inflicted? By whom? And with what weapon? It will help me to best treat them. And, while we are working together, we should become friends, should we not? I am Glasiel, a healer. Of Imladris, clearly." Her smile is genuine and friendly, although her concern for these injuries shows through.   
  
And Caelwen's spirit is a mass of black despair that sucks in the gentle song greedily. She turns her head away, clenching everything against Glasiel's light touch. She sips at air from between her teeth, then replies tightly, "No weapons, but rocks and boulders and water." She uncurls her fists and turns her hands palm-upward, red scabs a bit angry. "These are a little different. They.." She searches for words, and begins to shake, tears glittering in her eyes. A forceful swallow, and she tries again. "Well, I think the important thing is that there might be moss or some other sort of slime in these cuts." She pastes a transparent smile on. "Mae govannen, Glasiel. I am Caelwen.  I am a potter."  
  
Dunedhelgur lowers his voice to a whisper, keeping check on his voice that it does not disturb the rest of the patients. He makes little of Randinen's frown, perhaps noting that his 'disapproval' of his sudden presence as merely in an official capacity. He goes on to ask of the latest occurrences within Caras Galadhon as if to filter news of his old residence.   
  
"Well," Caelwen replies to Dunedhelgur, "Last autumn some children ran away, and it was a terrible time until we found them again, south of the Wood and near Fangorn." Her words spill like a waterfall, over-quick and nigh-babbling. "Wolves have been harrying us; there was an attack at the Naith. The Raavindonserke Mallorn caught fire, and my brother is helping rebuild it. There are new Indyr for the Dinlym." She looks to the edhel. "Is there aught else you would know?"   
  
Glasiel nods, listening, and her soft humming begins again quietly even while Caelwen speaks. She looks again at the hands, and nods once more. "Aye, these need attention, mellon. We should start with washing these wounds thoroughly." She suits actions to words, and prepares a cleansing liquid tinted yellow from some sort of antiseptic herb. Returning with a bowlful, she places it next to Caelwen. "Please soak your hands in this?"   
  
"Mellon Caelwen, Cennan o Lothlorien might perhaps know of my father, Finedhel the loremaster of Lorien from Vale of Anduin?" Dunedhelgur posing his question carefully so as not to sound too presumptuous or overly anxious.. "I would be most grateful if you have information of my father which I have not heard for long," replying to the elleth's question.   
  
"Raavindonserke caught fire?!" is Elethin's opening remark as she spirits into the room, adjusting her freshly donned healer's robes. "I hope that Althea is well, then?" She takes an opportunity to take in the scene. She smiles at Randinen and looks him over as she passes, and then makes her way over toward the medicine cabinet. "Dare I ask how that happened?" she asks Caelwen in a bantering tone, looking over her shoulder.   
  
A smile softens Randinen's frown; there seems no need for concern.  The lady from Lothlorien is being well-cared for.  He steps forward. "It gladdens me to find you in thus good care, Caelwen. You have company of words and the soothing comfort of one of our finest Olvaristdil. Perhaps I shall return to visit you another time... the morrow?" Glancing at Dunedhelgur he flashes a broad grin, "To discuss something of a different nature. Still, rest now and enjoy the compassion of these two." And with a wink the Hirvaethor steps away from the door, to open it; only to be startled, by the entering Elethin. He gifts her a warm smile and is gone.   
   
Caelwen nods once, curls swaying, and half-turns to set her hands in this bowl with a low groan. She instead lifts the bowl and places it on her lap, slipping her hands within and returning her attention to Dunedhelgur briefly. "I did not know any edhil lived in the Anduin Vale. Nay, I know not of him. I am sorry."She then looks up to the entering elleth, and her shoulders hunch again. "Althea.." she whispers, then speaks louder. "Althea was-was not harmed in the blaze, no, although she was there, as was I. An apprentice lampwright's lamp shattered and caused the fire, if this is what you mean." The yellow liquid in the bowl begins to ripple from the young Cennan's trembles, but she smiles woodenly at Rhandinen. "Thank you, mellon. I do hope to speak with you later. Namarie."   
  
Glasiel looks up from her preparations, blinking once again at Randinen. This time she blinks in surprise, not having heard such words from the stern elf before. She finds herself lacking the words to respond to his statement, however, and the only indication that she heard them is a wavering in her healing song. Recovering her composure, she takes a small pouch from her tray of gathered supplies, and extracts some small pieces of a yellowish root. "These will speed the recovery of your ribs, mellon. Chew them and swallow?" She holds a piece out, offering to feed it to Caelwen since her hands are soaking in the wash.

Caelwen opens her mouth obediently, rolling the bits of root around on her tongue before starting to chew.  
  
Elethin notes the change in Caelwen's posture, but she says nothing, only opens the cabinet. "Can I make anything for you, Glasiel?" she asks. "While I am here?"  
  
A quiet counterpoint to chatting and singing in the infirmary, the Lady Arwen enters with a serious expression on her face, painted with concern. She, too, has heard of the arrival of the Galadhrim, it seems, and that not all is well with the people from the Golden Wood she so loves. At once, her eyes sweep over the room, settling on Glasiel and the elf-woman she is treating. At the Heryn's side, as so often, is her companion Nimmeril.   
  
Avarthol quietly slips into the Infirmary, bearing a few supplies and herbs from the forest. As if he's done it a thousand times, the tracker stashes the supplies in their appropriate places. Curiously, he pauses to watch the small cluster around Caelwen's bed, before slipping quietly out again.  
  
Looking at Caelwen, Dunedhelgur grinned at her reply, " Perhaps I was not clear in putting across to you. We are of Laiquendi descent and my father was born in the Vale of Anduin but had long move to Caras Galadhon in an offical capacity along with my mother, also Laiquendi." Then rising at the arrival of the Heyrn, Arwen he proffer a nod and a "Mae govannen, Hiril nin." He also nods the new arrivals then sits down beside the wounded elleth again.   
  
Looking over to the cupboard, Glasiel smiles at Elethin gratefully. "Please, if you would? Have you experience yet, in preparing a poultice? Yarrow leaves would help ease Caelwen's pain..." At Arwen's entrance, she stands, inclining her head respectfully. "Heryn Arwen! Mae govannen, and may I introduce Caelwen o Lorien? She needs our care, for she arrives injured and much stressed of fea."   
  
"Certainly, mellon." Elethin swiftly begins the preparation of said poultice. Occupied as she is by her task, she does not notice the arrival of Arwen until Glasiel greets her. She turns to greet the Heryn formally, but briefly, before returning to her task.   
  
Nimmeril murmurs something to Arwen from the place near the Heryn's shoulder before, like the other elleth, looking at those who are within the infirmary. She is a silent shadow of the Lady of Imladris, and as ever she is attentive to Arwen's needs and to what transpires about her.   
  
"My uncle is a Laiquende," Caelwen speaks unmindfully, as though this is important. "Iaurranc.. a Vintner. He is a Dinlom, too, now." Glasiel's words almost seem to startle the young Indiri, and her face turns swiftly to the door. "Ai! Hiril Arwen!" Her head bows low for a while toward the Lady's granddaughter, and the Cennan closes her eyes for an endless moment, as though longing for sleep. She lifts her head with a start, and smiles briefly at Nimmeril, a thin, stretched smile, like a comely cloth cast over a ruined and scarred tabletop.

"Friend." Arwen addresses the elleth from Lorien, and with a brief nod for Nimmeril, she approaches the place where Glasiel is tending to Caelwen. Her voice is gentle as ever, but with a strange vibrant note to it, as she continues, "I am much joyed to see you and your kin here, though you seem to have come on a hard road." With that, she extends her hands to take one of Caelwen's out of the bowl and between her own, her eyes never leaving those of the guest, even as she adds, "You have done well, Glasiel, I see."   
  
Nimmeril returns Caelwen's smile gently, softly, before folding her hands before her to remain somewhat distant from Glasiel and Caelwen; 'tis best for those who do not heal to give room to those that do within these Halls.   
  
Caelwen's gaze is caught in Arwen's grey eyes even as her hand is caught between the Lady's. This almost seems too much for her in her current state; her shoulders hunch even further as her bright and wounded eyes fill with tears. "Th-thank you," she whispers. "Aye, the road was hard."   
  
Glasiel nods at Arwen, blushing under her kind words. Softly she continues her humming while she tends to Caelwen's cuts, taking a clean cloth dipped in the antiseptic wash and using it to clean the elleth's arms and face. She accepts the poultice from Elethin with a grateful smile, looking over it approvingly. "Beautifully done, Elethin. Very neat and just the right size," she offers quietly. She looks about to place them on Caelwen, and then halts. "Mellon, we need to get you out of these battered clothes before we proceed. Can I help you?" She looks at Elethin pointedly, indicating a nearby screen with her glance.   
  
Elethin has already retrieved the screen by the time Glasiel finishes her sentence, and she brings it over smiling. "Some room, if you would," she asks of the others around as she opens it out and sets it in place.  Dunedhelgur hurriedly gets up and moves away, to stand beside the door.  
  
"It has found its end here." Arwen says quietly, but strangely intently. She has obviously decided to simply ignore the preparations going on around them, or perhaps she is simply too deep in thought. This moment is only Caelwen's, and hers. "Peace and healing are here. Your friends will be with us soon, surely. My brother rarely fails on his errands. He will bring them and the scars of the road can heal until then." Soothing warmth seems to flow from Arwen's hands into the Galadhrim's own in this small moment of privacy.   
  
Glasiel carefully sets the poultices against Caelwen's ribs, wrapping them gently so they can do their work. She works quietly, staying out of the way of the conversation. Her humming continues softly as she gathers the used supplies, and as she clears away the tray to leave the rest to Arwen, she murmurs softly in the Heryn's ear, "I've not yet medicated the cuts, but they are clean. And she has not yet drunk any sleeping draught." With that, she moves away, to leave the two to their talking.

A figure clad in grey robes slips into the infirmary and finds himself next to the one known as Nimmeril. The dark haired Elf whose name is Thileithel smiles solemnly as he looks to the screen and those working behind it, and he shakes his head softly. Glancing at the maiden next to him, he asks quietly, "I trust everything goes well for the healers?"  
  
"Good day," comes the soft answer from Nimmeril to Thileithel, her lips turned into the faintest of smiles. "As far as I know, all is well; the Heryn is deft at caring for others, as is known. I have no fear for those in her care."   
  
Thileithel nods in reply, and his voice is light in tone, "Twas a rhetorical question. The lady is most capable, indeed. One of the Eldar would have to be near death indeed to be beyond her skill."

"Forgive me, mellon, for speaking what is obvious, for such things are, I fear, sometimes lost on me." Nimmeril slides a hand behind one leafy ear, taking with that gesture a shank of errant pale hair, then continues sotto voce, "The Heryn is quite an amazing lady...and a healer of spirits as well as bodies, judging from the reaction of her kind words."   
  
Caelwen's tears flow over, her hand tightening faintly in Arwen's. "Thank you," she murmurs again. "I do pray your every word prove true, m'Lady." Like thread snapping, she suddenly weeps well, though closes her eyes and tries to be quiet about it as she slips her hand away. She moves the bowl aside and arises with a whimper of pain, slipping behind the screen and out of her clothes and is back to her cot soon enough for Glasiel to apply the poultices, covering the rich, black bruises that decorate her torso and back. Eyes clenched tight against the pain with tears yet leaking through the fiery lashes, she still whispers her thanks to the Healer when this is done.   
  
A faint nod to Glasiel is Arwen's answer to the herbmistress' statement. She stands still for a moment, then puts a hand on Caelwen's forehead, very gently. "Rest now." she says quietly. "I shall leave pleasant company for you, and go to see if word has already arrived of your companions." With that, she motions towards the cot, perhaps for Caelwen to lie down, and then waves a hand for Nimmeril to come closer, a brief smile flickering over her face as she notices Thileithel next to her.

Smiling in return, Thileithel nods to Undomiel, then with a pat to Nimmeril's forearm, he slips out of the infirmary, not wishing to disturb the patient any further.   
  
As Nimmeril joins her, Arwen trails a hand over Caelwen's blankets, looking thoughtfully down at the young elleth, then smiles encouragingly, and takes Nimmeril's arm to lead her maid out, heads together in quiet conversation.

Caelwen's eyes close as Arwen's hand touches her brow, and she nods numbly. "Aye, I do long for sleep." She lowers herself to the cot with difficulty, face set against the pain, then curls to her uninjured side and pulls the robe closer about her. "Thank you, mellyn. I'll tell my family of your generosity," she speaks softly, eyes still shut. It seems the young Indiri does not sleep yet, but her voice is not heard again as she shrouds herself behind her shuttered gaze.

_Dunedhelgur turns to follow Arwen out, and now none are left in this room, save Glasiel and Elethin.  Quietly, they move to the door, and speak in low voices, glancing now and again at Caelwen where she sleeps - they hope.  At last, Elethin nods and leaves as well, leaving the healer to seat herself near the bed.  Glasiel closes her own eyes and starts to hum once more.  The soothing tendril of song winds into Caelwen's thoughts and leads them into fair dreams, and at last, to sleep._

*fea = spirit

*Raavindonserke and Dinlom are House/family names.  Indyr/indiri would be the heads of the house.

*Cennan = potter


	14. Wine Thieves?

_Caelwen slept dreamlessly, deep in a natural sleep for the first time since the accident in which Erinstar was lost and she was injured.  Whenever distress tried to rise in her mind, a song and a memory of kind words and a gentle touch rose up to calm her.  But as dawn brightened the sky, she awoke, and impelled by a restlessness she could not explain, she snuck out of bed, and crept out to explore the house.  She had never seen anything like this great structure, and it filled her both with wonder and a strange unease.  She rubbed her arms against a sudden chill, and wandered up one corridor and down another, gazing in silent amazement at the rich carpets and tapestries, the intricate carvings, the lovely vases and sculptures that adorned small tables and niches along the way._

_'The whole place seems to be deserted!' Caelwen thought.  'Probably everyone is outside.  I would certainly be outside, if I could find the way.'  Just then, she saw a gleam of light ahead, and hurried to look out the slender window cunningly set into a corner of the wall.  For several long minutes, she drank in the starlight, raising her face to the bit of sky she could see.  Then a silvery thread of laughter caught her attention, and she craned her head trying to see down.  There... someone moved below, lifting a glass that glittered in the faint light and drinking deeply before handing it to someone just out of her sight.  She sighed, seized with a longing for a drink - for the cool, refreshing wine her mother loved best._ _'There must be a way out of here!' she said aloud to the empty corridor, suddenly feeling almost trapped._ _And seeing the edge of a stairway curving away from her, she ran to it, and started down. Running down the steps was too hard, making her ribs ache painfully, and she slowed; but barely took in her surroundings, so eager was she to get OUT.  There was a door ahead - she pushed it open._

This deep cavern may once have been used as a cell, judging by iron rings in one wall, but it is now stacked to the ceiling with casks and bottles of wine, of all vintages imaginable: casks shipped from Gondor to Mithlond and brought by mule train to Imladris, rare bottles of Dorwinion wine from the far Sea of Rhun, and of course a precious stack of bottles of Miruvor, the cordial of Imladris, made by a secret process from local fruits and berries.  Caelwen's eyes go from rack to rack, and widen.  By what luck has she found - not a way out, but the other thing she most desires! - this must be the wine cellar.  And surely, Lord Elrond would not begrudge her a taste.... But voices freeze her in her steps.  
  
"A star shines upon the hour of our meeting, dear potato," Rhulalaith replies extravagantly. "I don't like white. Let's find a nice flask of red and drink it on the sly. I don't think we'd best take the miruvor; I hear it's watched zealously!" He pauses, alerted by the soft footsteps on the stair, and turns, frowning a bit. "Why ... what have we here?"   
  
Naurelin says, "You don't dare call me a potato or I shall call you something... something.. " she frowns, her brow furrowing over the bridge of her nose as she tries to think of an equally dastardly name, ".. a gourd! A bitter gourd, for the time I had you kicked out of the Healing Hall for making a ruckus while preaching their follies to those who went to seat the gates in Moria!" When Rhulalaith addresses someone, Naurelin turns around, a curious gaze looking over the newcomer and guest of Hir Elrond's house. "Welcome." she greets Caelwen with a smile, "Would you like to share the wine we are ...err.. stealing." She winks, "Be careful while getting down the step, though."  
  
Rhulalaith sniffs haughtily, twanging several harp strings randomly. "I had my reasons," he declares, before beckoning to the elleth in the doorway. He squints. "Oh my. Naurelin, are your eyes keener than mine? Methinks I see scratches and bruises. Someone hasn't taken my words of warning to heart!"   
  
A weak smile attempts to lift the stranger's lips, but it ends up just trembling them and falling again. "Mae govannen.. Is it not allowed to have wine?" Her face falls even further into disappointment, and a lustful glance is cast again to the wine. "I am Caelwen, Lady of Dinlom." She bites a parched lip and takes the final steps down. "I should like to help. But is it not rude for a guest to steal from the host?"   
  
Naurelin says, "Hah! Permission to have wine?" She looks at Rhulalaith, a wicked grin curling along the edges of her mouth, "And mellon, _you_ would not be stealing, we are.. I am, rather and the Lalaithdir is most likely an accomplice if he does not protest or try to stop me."   
  
Hunting around the place, she finally finds a good bottle of deep, raspberry red coloured Eldaril, "This looks good, no?" Naurelin sticks the bottle for all to inspect and popping the cap open, she sniffs it. "If it smells good, it is probably good to have." She knows nothing about the quality of good wine, and that is no mystery... as long as it gives her a happy buzz, she cares not.

Rhulalaith chuckles. "Indeed, we shall drink this wine. We steal it, you drink it. We can share. As a professional of laughter, I can prescribe wine to relieve sadness. Alleviate it! Destroy it entirely. " He pauses. "Guest ... a woodsy-elf then?"

A few words drift down from the top of the staircase, followed soon after by a dark head and deeply curious face. Ailiell peers into the cellar, a worn book in one hand and a lifted pastry in the other. There she pauses, blankly looking on those assembled. "What on earth?"   
   
Caelwen eases closer to Naurelin and the tempting wine. "Welll... Mayhap if I were to just take what you offer..." She whirls guiltily at Ailiell's voice, then gives a gasp of pain and half-bends over, clutching her distress to her for a moment. A slow careful breath, and she straightens, peering now to Rhulalaith. "Aye, I am of the Galadhrim. I haven't seen the rest of them here... well, save Erucolindo. May I learn your names, mel-mellyn?"   
  
Rhulalaith glances up to Ailiell at the head of the stairs. "Come down the stairway," he calls lightly. "We're treating our woodsy guest to a drink. Tell me, woodsy-guest, how was your, ah, trip? Naurelin, we need cups!"   
  
On hearing the sound of pain from Caelwen, Naurelin's free hand reaches out to support the Galadhrim out of habit and instinct that is innate in a healer... just in case anything happens. "Perhaps you should sit down." She offers the bottle to Rhulalaith, "I will try and find something for Caelwen to sit on and get the cups." She quickly disappears behind some stacked casks and returns with a wooden chair and some clean glasses. "Erm.. here you go." She hands a glass to Caelwen, "I am Naurelin, Healer of Imladris and this is our delightful Jester, Arglin's bane and a general menace stalking all Imladris elves. Oh! And sometimes, he entertains us nicely, planting smiles like Dinaloss plants roses in the Greenhouse." She winks, and from her tone it is apparent that she is teasing Rhulalaith.   
  
Gathering her skirts, Ailiell steps more fully into the loamy-smelling place and settles herself on one of the bottom steps. Mildly she takes in the scene, as one at a performance, elbows on knees, chin on hands. "Mae govannen," she offers politely to the stranger. "Ailiell is my name, and I am a philosopher of this house. At times. Now what is this all about?"   
  
"My trip was horrible," Caelwen chuckles mirthlessly. "And the Gladden gave me gifts to remember it by!" Her hand gingerly explores her ribs, and she winces. A warm and grateful smile is lifted to Naurelin, and the Cennan takes a cup in her hands, even as she settles herself with care in the offered chair. She smiles at Rhulalaith.  "I like your menace already."  The smile is stretched thin over the stress in her voice, and she turns her face with a gentle nod of her head to the elleth on the stairs. "Well met. I am Caelwen Hiril nos Dinlom, and a Potter o Lothlorien." The cup is clutched closer to her.   
  
The jester frowns. "Careless woodsy-elf," he murmurs. "So, no dire injuries I hope? Nasty scratches, but nothing worse, I trust?"   
  
Naurelin frowns too, "Didn't you say you would -share- the wine, Rhulalaith?" She sticks her cup out in front of her, "Are you saving it for some rainy day? Hand it out, mellon." To Ailiell she says, "Come down, if someone finds out that we are sneaking in Eryndae's Cellar, we shall have much to answer for!" Turning to the jester, a devilish twinkle sparkles in her eyes, "So, why did I catch you here, mellon? Oh! And I had something very important to discuss with you."   
  
Ailiell obeys promptly, getting up and searching about for another seat, alighting finally upon a dusty case of unknown content. Silently she watches, nibbling absently at the pastry. A pained expression crosses her face then and she winces, murmuring, "Ah, that poor bathril." Gesturing to the jester she begs a glass for herself as well.   
  
"On me, you mean?" ventures Caelwen a bit timidly to Rhulalaith, and a flush darkens her skin beneath the freckles and bruises. "Lord Elladan said my ribs are broken." Her voice lowers. "And worse did happen, but I do not mean to ruin the merry spirit here." She sticks her cup toward the Jester in mimicry of Naurelin, and echoes with a mild lilt. "Aye! Do share." A bright green glance is slid sidelong toward the healer. "Who is this Eryndae? And aiya! I do not wish to gain anyone's wrath while a guest here, in truth, though I would pester the vinters at home any day."   
  
"Give her a cup," Rhulalaith demands of Naurelin, pouring wine into cups one by one. As Caelwen speaks, the jester frowns, takes a long swig from the bottle itself. In a hushed voice: "No ... severe accidents?"   
  
After Naurelin hands out a cup to Ailiell, she turns to Caelwen, "Eryndae is the Master Vintner of Imladris and she is as protective of her wine bottles as a bear is of her cubs." She takes a slow sip of the wine, "One would have a lot of explaining to do to her, if you sneaked in here and she came to know. Tell, me.. " she cants her head to the side, "..can I help ease your pain and the swelling of the bruises? I know we have picked some fresh boneset root and that shall set the rib bones. Some arnica should also work on the cuts and scratches."   
  
"Worse?" Ailiell pipes up worriedly. "Why, what befell you, mellon?" She tucks her feet under her and unbinds her hair against the chill of the cellar as she awaits an answer to Rhulalaith's query. Taking the offered wine, she looks from Naurelin to Caelwen.   
  
"Aye, worse happened," Caelwen takes a deep swallow of her wine, earnest with the drink as a young lover new-come to kissing. Both hands grip her cup with white knuckled fervor. "The Lady's Herald died." Her words come quick now, babbling, and the liquid trembles in the glass. "Lady Galadriel's Herald, I mean. His name was Erinstar. I don't know if you know of him. He pulled me from the river." She takes another several long gulps at her cup, then looks up and around. "Elbereth! I am sorry! I did not mean to do this. Sorry." She hides her eyes behind a scraped palm and takes shallow breaths, obvious in her attempt to calm herself.   
  
Rhulalaith goes white, standing suddenly. He knocks the bottle over, barely managing to rescue it from shattering. "A death!" he gasps. The pale jester's eyes narrow. He is still pallid with shock, but he breathes slowly. Spots of color come to his cheeks. "How many elves," he asks neutrally, leaning forward to pour Caelwen more wine (a _lot_ more wine), "have died in your woods in the past yen or so?"   
  
Naurelin wiggles a nose in distaste, "That is sad." she remarks in a calmer voice, not being one for theatrics. She sits on a cask and observes the Galadhrim with an intense gaze, awaiting to hear more on what happened at the Gladden to the company from Lorien.   
  
Her cup held steady for Rhulalaith, Caelwen then takes it back to her and drinks with single-minded concentration. She lowers it again, with her hand over her eyes. "I do not know. A twain in my family. No!" she corrects herself. "My brother died more than two yeni ago." She pauses, silent in consideration and silent in her drink. "I really cannot say. I know very few who would leave the Wood and face danger. 'Twas foolhardy of me to come here, and for the other people in my group." She gives a measured, glittering gaze to each of the three here. "Why?"   
  
The pale Lalaithdir starts back a step. "You wood-elves are insane," he manages, horrified. "Two deaths in as many yeni. A death on a trip." He pours himself a cup of wine shakily, tosses it back. "Insane!"   
  
Caelwen's bright peridot gaze remains on the jester. "My brother and my cousin died against the yrch defending my home. Do they have yrch here?" No sarcasm limns her tone; perhaps the Cennan honestly does not know. "But aye, I'll agree. Such trips as this are insanity, and I will do my best to ensure they do not happen again." She then shrinks back into her chair, nursing her wine.

Ailiell stands slowly, looking quite as shocked as the jester. "Forgive me," she says softly. "I must learn more of this later. Shall I bring you something stronger?" She glances to Naurelin and back. "To calm you?"

Naurelin smiles, "I think we could all do with some calming right now, but the win here should be enough." Leaning to Rhulalaith's side, she murmurs, "I still need to discuss something with you, when you have time, drop by the Hall of Healing and I shall be in the Lore Depository or I shall come and find you later in the evening in the Hall of Fire."   
  
"Very well," the shaken jester replies, starting towards the stairs. He puts the bottle down, nearly empty, and makes his exit.   
  
Ailiell returns the smile, faintly. "Wine you have in abundance, indeed. If there's nothing more I can do, then." She nods to the Galadhrim and silently follows on Rhulalaith's heels.   
  
Sitting on the flagon, Naurelin sips her wine and after a prolonged moment of silence, she asks a question, "If you don't mind my asking, how many have come from Lorien and what is the official purpose of your coming?" Her eyes peer at the wood-elf, a keen gaze noticing the various scratches and wounds over her body. "You really should have that looked at." she suggests.   
  
Caelwen shivers for a while in the chill of the cellar, finishing the wine in her cup ere replying, looking up to the remaining elf. "I have been looked at." She sighs and looks briefly away. "I'm not really sure why most came here. There are ten of us, and most are from the Royal Court. I believe it is something about an embassy."   
  
With her interest piqued, Naurelin sits up on the flagon and with her interest subtly hinting in her voice, she asks, "An embassy? But wasn't that why some people from Lorien came the last time and nothing came of it? I wonder why those of Lorien's Royal Court would come again?" She raises her glass of wine and lets the rim rest on her lower lip, not really drinking the wine, a blue gaze locked on Caelwen.   
  
Caelwen sinks into her chair even further with a little sigh, resting her cup in her lap. A small, tired smile lifts.  "I have no idea why they came. I have no idea why they came last time. I honestly hate to say aught against my own people, but I think it a fool's errand, a fool's idea." She shrugs, and winces at the result. And annoyance begins to paint her tone, as she says, "Why would they risk anyone's lives for this?"   
  
Naurelin's brow knots over her forehead as she cogitates over a reason, "I would not know but I am sure it will achieve very little. To loose so many lives just to establish an embassy in Imladris is indeed foolish. Why would you want an ambassador here, when any news will anyways have to be conveyed via couriers. The presense or absence of an ambassador in Imladris will not affect the counsel of Hir Elrond as any opinions worth consideration will anyway come from the Lady of Lorien and her Lord." Shoulders rise in a slight shrug and she shakes her head, "It is truly a sad day when precious lives are wasted over a task that shall prove futile."   
  
Caelwen studies the healer in amaze, blinking softly. Finally, she blurts out, "But does everyone in Imladris think as you do, mellon?" And with stubborn honesty, she adds, "I do not know that they have come for that purpose.  It may be for other reasons; to consult with Hir Elrond, or some such thing."  
  
The healer nods and sighs, "I am not sure about whether all think the same as I, but I am aware of a few. Some of Imladris' intellectuals and also members of Elrond's counsel do not particularly see the merits of setting up an embassy at the Last Homely House. Well.." she muses, "..not unless they are provided with a very convincing reason why one should be established here.  But if that is not the case..."  She shrugs and finishes her glass of wine, pouring another.   
  
"I wonder if my companions know of this," Caelwen's voice floats and plummets with thought. "If they did, I would... well! I will have my work cut out for me, then. I do sit on the Royal Counsel." With a groan pouring from between parted lips, she levers herself from the chair and makes her careful way toward the stairs, where again she settles herself. Picking up the abandoned wine-bottle, her gaze seeks Naurelin again. "Well, I imagine they probably do have a good reason, aye? Even if they are Raavindonserke." Wine is poured, singing, into her cup.   
  
Naurelin offer a kind smile to Caelwen, "Well, now that you an idea of how we place things, you might see the folly of setting up an embassy. There is really not advantage to either side from it. Apart from hosting a Galadhrim in Imladris.. " the expert healer coughs, "..which I am sure the Hir and other Imladhrim would be glad to do, an ambassador's presence in the Valley serves no purpose." An inquisitive look takes to her face, "Tell me more about what happened at the Gladden. Was your company attacked unawares by the savage hordes from Moria?"   
  
Caelwen nods a few times, and takes counsel from her cup for a while before replying. "We were attacked by wolves. Lothdaimoth and I were separated from the main group." Bright green eyes flick to the healer. "Oh, Lothdaimoth is my cousin... I don't know if you know him. In any case, we were chased for days ere my cousin managed to get them to let us alone." Her face winces tightly with grief, but she takes another mouthful of wine and calms herself. "Later, we were.. climbing up a ravine on our way here, in a terrible flood and storm. A tree fell, and I had to pull Lothdaimoth away from it, so I fell into the river." The young Indiri's body hunches into itself in an unconscious reaction to memory. She stares unseeing into the wine in her glass. "I was caught between bolders. Erinstar.." tears begin to fall anew, but she still continues speaking, almost as though forgetting the presense of another. "Erinstar was suddenly there, and he pulled me out. We went ashore, and I should have reached for him, but I didn't and the river took him instead!" She shakes with weeping, body tight-set against the pain, and drinks the wine watered with teardrops.   
  
The healer scrambles around, her hands searching her pockets and finally, finding a kerchief from her satchel, she hands it to Caelwen, "There, there now... what has happened is the past. You cannot beat yourself over things that were out of your control." Her tone softens and it is touched by a slight timber of sadness. "Your friend will travel beyond the realm of the living to Mandos's Halls, where he shall be welcomed with open arms. I am certain he shall find greater peace in a world distant from our own, which is still striving to maintain a balance of order between good and evil."   
  
Caelwen suddenly finds another handkerchief thrust into her hand, and she abandons her cup to the stair while she weeps for a moment into the little square of cloth. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she cries. "It's been weeks now since this whole terrible thing started and I don't know anyone here, and my family is all so far away except for Lothdaimoth, and he is off again and who knows if I will see him again." her babbling words finally die off, the young Silvan's sobs becoming more staccato as she tries to quiet herself.   
  
Naurelin quirks a brow, "I think I might know Lothdaimoth. Is he a courier for Lorien? I think I might have met him on my trip to Lorien a few summers ago." She ponders, "I wonder if you would happen to know my cousin, Erucolindo..." Her hand lifts to her mouth, where it rests on the tip of her chin. "He might be able to comfort you, he is very supportive and caring. I am sure, were he present at your tragedy, he would be a hero and save this Erinstar, this friend you lost."   
  
  
"Lothdaimoth is a counselor for Lothlorien now, but aye, that is him," Caelwen replies between the sniffles and hiccups that remain in the aftermath of her new little cloudburst, little whimpers of pain surfacing now and then. She lowers the handkerchief, and her reddened, bruised and freckled face looks up toward Naurelin again. "And I do know Erucolindo, but he really isn't fond of me. Which I can understand." She looks over the healer a bit more carefully now. "I didn't know he had family in the Valley."   
  
The healer looks at Caelwen with an odd little expression on confusion marked on her face. "Not like you?" She tries to stifle laughter, which still breaks forth in the form of a grin, "That is impossible! My cousin loves everyone." She takes a sip of her wine, which was lying near her feet at the base of the flagon. "Erucolindo cannot be mad at a single soul. I have tried and tested his patience numerous times in the past and apart from a good payback in the form of some dastardly trick, I have never really heard or seen him get angry at a living soul!"   
  
The Cennan shrugs a bit listlessly. "I did not say that he is angry at me. I don't know if he is or not." Her fingers toy with the rim of her cup, and again she drinks deeply. "But I can see how he would dislike me, and I blame him not for it. But I do not believe it my place to tell."   
  
Curiosity is blatantly presented in her what Naurelin says next, "You must tell me what happened now? Why would my cousin dislike you?" Her brows furrow as deep likes etch into her forehead, "I think I like you and after what you have been through, if Erucolindo tells me he dislikes you because you did not allow him to wear an extra quiver of arrows to a scouting trip in the forests of Lothlorien, then he shall get quite a rebuking from me!" she exclaims, her tone filled with a perplexed irritation.   
  
"Nay.. 'tis nothing so frivolous. You heard that I am Indiri o nos Dinlom? It has to do with that." Caelwen stands slowly with another groan. "Anyway.. I am very tired now. My side hurts.." a weak smile lifts. "And I can't seem to sleep enough. Thank you for letting me tell you of my sorrows. Namarie." And, carefully refilling her cup, she takes it and the flask with her as she uncertainly makes her way back up the stairs.


	15. Failure

_It had been a long hunt.  Long - and fruitless.  Lothdaimoth winced away from the thought, and his eyes went to Elladan who strode tirelessly ahead of them. Despite all their efforts, despite the care with which they searched, all they had found of Erinstar was his battered shield, wedged among the rocks of the river, a great splinter torn out of it.  And now they were headed back.  Though his heart burned to keep looking, keep hunting until he found his friend's body if nothing else; Lothdaimoth could not gainsay the son of Elrond.  And Elladan had decreed that they must return. "You cannot keep going, mellon," he had said, not ungently.  "Even your strength fails. And others need you... your cousin, for one?"  Lothdaimoth was stricken anew with guilt.  He had nearly forgotten - how could he have forgotten? - but surely, she was safe now, and had no more need of him.  He had protested, but the Herion was firm._

_And now they were returning, unsuccessful. Those last images played themselves over and over in his mind:  Erinstar leaping to save Caelwen from drowning '...as I did not,' a treacherous voice whispered, Erinstar reaching up for help '...I failed him,' Erinstar caught away by the current, his head vanishing beneath the roiling water... 'I failed him.'  'I failed him...'  Anguished, he lifted his face to the sky, welcoming the bitter wind that slapped against his face, and the black clouds that covered the stars.  How was he going to tell them? 'I failed...'_

_Ahead, Elladan stopped and held up one hand, kneeling almost with the same movement.  Lothdaimoth caught the motion, crouching down behind the Herion and feeling for an arrow, jerked from the ceaseless round of self-condemnation. Behind, he felt more than heard Galindrion do the same.  Near soundlessly, he murmured, "What is it?"_ _But even as he asked, Lothdaimoth heard the harsh voices born on the wind._

_"Ah smells sumption maybe ... take a whiff and tell me what it is."_

_"That's Elf. I can recognize that stench. It burns my nostrils."_

_"...behead them, eat them, and rip them limb from limb..!"_

_"We are but three, and they sound to be many.  Should we flee?"  It is Galindrion, moving noiselessly forward._ _"I see them," came the whispered answer from the trio's tall leader, and it is Elladan, son of Elrond; his grey-eyes glittered like stars in the darkness, and his raven hair was as a streaming cloud. He was that one whose effulgence might very well their position betrayed; " They have been watching us for some time now; for these are their lands, and even the cloaks of Lorien cannot hide us from their eyes in the darkness that they know so well. Do not run! You are weary from the road and much sorrow; but the more I fear a trap, and at any rate, to run is to lead them to our fellows." He pointed down toward the road, a good ways distant still. " Look there; aid comes, not unlooked for. We shall stand here and make our defence on the high ground; when the dawn comes we shall be safe, or fallen. But hope remains at least while you have courage; now bend your bows and make ready!"_

_Lothdaimoth's grief and abstraction had not slowed his reflexes, for his bow came swiftly and easily to hand at Elladan's words. And an arrow followed almost without thought. From looking oft to the rear, now his gaze was fixed on the figures that crawled in the distance - yet not distant enough. " At your word," he whispered, near silent in the gathered gloom. Chilled by more than just the knife-edged wind that snatched hungrily at his cloak, he shivered slightly, and looked ahead to where Elladan pointed._

_Nearly no light and little to see save for those eyes born most keen, or most engendered to darkness. Yet to the north, near the road that runs ragged along these fields, more Elves approached - and determinedly. Dust rose beneath even the lightest of footfalls, the crumbling earth swirling in a dismal cloud of gray as this second party of elves crossed the barren lands in near-silent haste. From the front, a lone figure stepped apart from the others. With the slightest lift of a slender hand, those behind her halted as she reached the crest of the old worn road._

_Lothdaimoth could hear Galindrion's breath expelled in a sigh of relief, hear the faintest creak as the other pulled an arrow to his shoulder and held it, waiting for Elladan's command._

_There.  Another movement in the darkness.  An orc lifted his head, then his eyes over the swaying grass. Then the dark shape lowered itself back into the grass._

_Elladan's hand strayed to his waist, and parted his cloaks there, with mail shimmering mercurial beneath; then on to the tall hilt of his sword, which it grasped, loosening the blade in its scabbard. "Waste no arrows!" he said under his breath. "We may have need of them yet, this long night!" With that, he drew forth his weapon, the steel ringing clearly in the chill air, the edges glittering like ice. "NOW!"_

_Muted were the rescue party's footfalls across the dull green matted grasses that barely hid the dusty ground beneath. Nearer they drew, their determination clear through poise and steadiness; and raised bows and tense, set faces. As Elladan's sword brought a glimmer of light to the deepening shadows, and his shout shattered the silence, a word from Eryndae brought more drawn weapons. Bows sighed audibly against the night, the whisper of steel matched in tone as the lady drew Gwathoanir, a sword stained both by tears and blood in years past. " Foul things are all but upon us, Maethori. Cunir, ready your arrows! Magor, your swords!"_

_Beside Lothdaimoth, Galindrion stood and fired.  A second arrow is sent after the first, and a third followed as swiftly. T_ _he instant the elven arrow bit through the night, a black one answered, snarling back towards the attackers.  It sank into Galindrion's thigh, the barbed head buried in muscle. The blow ruined the elf's aim, and his fourth arrow flew at random into the night and was lost.  Cursing, he drew his sword and cut at the shaft, breaking it off.  Then, hurriedly, he bound a cloth around the wound, and set himself grimly.  There was no more time for arrows - an orc was charging up the slight slope at him, bellowing curses, a black curved blade held low.  Another was behind it, and another - this one with an axe._

_Elladan leapt forward, shouting, "Earendil!" There in the night, on this lonely hillside, he was revealed for all to see; tall, lordly, descendant of chieftains and kings; arrows fall about him, striking his mail and glancing off without hurt. Lothdaimoth had no time to see what the Herion was running towards; it took all his concentration and skill to fend off the three who were darting in at him, slashing and cutting, and slipping back out of range.  But even over the harsh panting of his own breath, he heard the clash of metal against metal.  And then Galindrion was there, his sword ringing clear against the notched blades of their enemies. First one fell before him, then another, black blood spurting out and staining the grass.  Lothdaimoth met the eyes of the orc as Galindrion's sword sliced through its chest, and it stumbled, watching him with eyes that burned with hatred.  With the last of its strength, it tried still to lash out, but its balance and life were gone, and it fell forward to land at his feet._

_A noise, a movement - Lothdaimoth was never sure what it was that spun him around to see a still-larger orc running towards him from behind. He loosed his arrow, snatching another; even as he fired, a shaft from behind burned across his arm, spoiling his aim.  The demonish orc charged forward, swinging its sword wildly in the air about its head, shouting triumphantly as Lothdaimoth's arrow went astray.  The closer the uruk got, the faster it seemed it was running, and Lothdaimoth barely had time to shot again - but the closer it got, the larger the target it made as well.  He took a bare second to aim, and without waiting to see if this arrow struck true, he leapt aside.  And then their allies were among them. An arrow sprouts from the orc's back, slamming it to one knee. It roared with pain, but shoved itself up again, moving into a stumbling run towards Lothdaimoth.  It was too close for arrows now, and Lothdaimoth ran backwards, trying to gain room to shoot - and stumbled over a corpse, falling backwards._

_The orc's blade slashes across his forearm, a searing line of pain; and then its eyes widened.  It froze, then toppled down towards him.  Just before it landed, Lothdaimoth rolled aside, scrambling to his feet, gasping for air.  It was a chaotic scene: black shapes struggling in the black night, seen for a moment, then blurring into shadows.  But there - just ahead of him an arrow slammed into Eryndae's shoulder and sent her staggering backwards with a grunt of pain.  She flipped her sword to her other hand, and pressed the attack; but unseen behind her, another orc rose from the grass gripping an axe in both hands.  It howled, "I will gut you and feast upon your intestines!"_

_Lothdaimoth saw her turn, bringing her sword up in defense, but there was no time.  She wouldn't be able to make it.  Frantically, he shot without aiming, and it was with an astonished relief that he saw his arrow go through the orc's neck.  It jerked, then fell, the axe on its downswing thudding harmlessly into the ground.  But the orc that had been behind jumped forward, its sword cutting deeply into Eryndae's arm; and Lothdaimoth switched his aim.  She was between them... desperate lest he should hit the one he sought to save, or wait too long for an opening, he ran a few steps to the side and fired.  At that moment, Eryndae crumpled to the ground and his arrow flew truly, sinking into the orc's chest._

_From one side, Galindrion ran up, taking Eryndae's hand and helping her to rise. "They are vanquished," he said breathlessly.  "Elladan calls for retreat."  It was true.  Around them lie only the bodies of the dead; those who yet lived were fleeing through the night.  The elves took barely enough time to bind the wounds of the injured before fleeing themselves, north to the valley._

_  
_


	16. The Searchers Return

"Caelwen! What are you doing this far from the infirmary, mellon? Please, give those ribs a chance to mend." As Glasiel speaks, her tone goes from alarm, to scolding, and finally settles on concern.   
   
The young Silvan startles as a voice calls out her name, bringing a slight wince of pain. "But I walked all the way from the pass with broken ribs! For two weeks, I think it was!" Her chin is set stubbornly, but her eyes hold a guilty and pleading light in the darkness as she looks over to Glasiel. She sighs. "I am sorry, mellon. It is just so... miserably hot everywhere else, and it is cool here, and I was tired of lying there and brooding about what sort of horrible things might be happening even now to my kin." Her hands clasp, and her head bows shyly, adding softly, "And I cannot bear the waiting.  It.. it has been nearly another two weeks.  And I am much better, truly."

Glasiel approaches the Caelwen, her hand on her hip. "Two weeks' travel that were /necessary/, in order to get you here to safety and to those who can help you. But we can't help you if you insist on ignoring our advice, mellon." Her eyes soften, despite her sharp words, and she smiles.

Even as Caelwen speaks of him, a shadow crosses the doorway - Lothdaimoth stands hesitating in the entrance. He has laid aside his cloak, but the clothing he wears is travel-stained and torn. Around his upper arm, a bloody cloth is tied, and his face is haggard and pale. His dark eyes go wearily from one to the other of those gathered within, lighting at last upon his cousin. Yet still he lingers, before with a deep breath, he leaves the sanctuary of the door and threads his way towards her.   
  
Glasiel's words die away as a shadow passes across the entrance, and the form of a elf, much the worse for wear, appears. Without waiting for an introduction, her attention diverted from Caelwen, she says, "Aiya! Who is this? You need assistance. Can you make it to the infirmary?"   
  
Caelwen sets her jaw stubbornly, and is about to reply when Glasiel stops talking and looks at away.  She follows the Healer's glance to the door, and squeaks. "Lothdaimoth!" She slips past Glasiel and does not stop until she is beside him, her arms about him in a careful hug. "Did you...?" She pulls back again, and studies her cousin mutely. Her face falls into despair, and she lifts her hand to tuck a bit of sable hair behind his ear. "Nevermind," she murmers, then looks to his arm, fiery brows furrowed. "You have seen battle? Ai! I hope you are not badly hurt." She turns to look for Glasiel.   
  
Lothdaimoth gives a dismissive glance to the unknown Imladhrim who, from her words, appears to be a healer. With a shortness very unlike his usual manner, he tells her, "I need no assistance." At that moment, Caelwen's arms go around him and his own, uninjured arm curls over her shoulder. For a brief moment, he bows his head, resting his cheek on her bright hair. Eyes closed, grief deepening; before all is banished to stillness. Bleakly he murmurs, "As you see, cousin. This promise at least, I have kept."   
  
Daydreaming, Galena o nos Laiquendi steps from the path into the greenhouse. Her steps are accented by the tinkling chime of the bells at her wrists. Verdant eyes gain lucidity, then great joy, followed by a healer's concern as she surveys the scene before her. Automatically, her hands go to the large black pack on her back and she slings it around, moving quickly to Caelwen and Lothdaimoth. "Mellyn! What has happened?" The apprentice gingerly takes Loth's arm, giving it a studious glance.   
  
Glasiel nods, still looking concerned. At Galena's entry, and her words, she brightens. "Aye, sir. You at least need some healers' attention. Please, will you not follow us to the infirmary? Your wounds must be cleaned and dressed, and. . ." she frowns lightly at the tall edhel. "It is no weakness to take the proper precautions. No sense waiting for things to get worse, is there?"   
  
Galena's touch on his arm brings a wince to the tall vintner's face. Almost, Lothdaimoth manages a smile for his friend, but it dies stillborn; no more than a passing twist of the lips containing nothing of joy or humor. Dark eyes, now flat and shuttered, return then to Glasiel. "No." There is a long pause, mayhap he will not speak again, but then a few more words are spoken. "It will heal."   
  
Caelwen slips her arm behind her cousin's back, a glance given to both the healers. She stands a tip-toe, then speaks softly to Lothdaimoth. "You have done all that was possible to do, I am sure of it. Do not..." she swallows and her words trail off. She returns to her heels, then looks up to him again and speaks louder. 'You are sure? Lothdaimoth.. what if it has a sickness in the cut? Remember what happened to Celebrian...' The young cousin watches him anxiously.   
  
Galena turns now-blazing green eyes to Lothdaimoth's face. "Aye, with attention! You will come now, you do no one any good by allowing yourself to go on this way. You are acting worse than..." the apprentice's words fall away and she takes a closer look at Caelwen and Lothdaimoth, noting a deeply saddened look upon them. Her gaze goes fearfully to Glasiel. "You - did not find...?" Wells of tears threaten at the corners of her eyes.   
  
The familar sweet scent of herbs bears forth the arrival of yet another quendi, tall in stature, almost 'ecclesiastical' in looks. Dunedhelgur's countenance is almost demure-like but the warmth in his voice soon dismisses any doubt if there were any... "Mae Govannen, Mellyn nin!" his voice came across clearly with a warmth that could only be felt.  
  
Lothdaimoth's eyes go briefly to Caelwen's face. "Had I done all, I would have found him." Galena's bewildered inquiry hunches his shoulders and deepens the lines seaming his face. And in a whisper almost unheard he says, "Erin.. Erinstar did not return with us." Another's arrival, no matter the warmth and welcome in the voice, only lands on him like still one more blow, and he bows his head, not turning.   
  
Glasiel says anxiously, "I know nothing of... Oh."  The last word is a breath of sadness.  But her immediate concern is for Lothdaimoth and she asks Galena, "Can you not think of a way to get him to come to the infirmary? If Hir Elrond found out that I saw one of his guests injured, and failed to tend his wounds..."   
  
Galena backs away from her friends shaking her head. The threatening tears spill over onto her cheeks as slender hands fly up to brush them away. "No! It cannot be! I have seen him cheat Mandos' Halls too many times! He is not gone from us. Simply on another fool adventure!" Her eyes move wildly about the room, falling on nothing at all. "You will not act as he does, Loth. For my own sake, do not be foolhardy! Come now to the infirmary, Erin!" She pauses, realizing what she has said. The tears are unstoppable as they flood her cheeks. "Loth... I meant Lothdaimoth.. I.. I am sorry." Her tone has simmered to a barely heard whisper and she buries her face deep into her hands.   
  
At Galena's question, Caelwen's face crumples further, the bruises twisting with her grief. Arm still behind Lothdaimoth, she turns her face toward his shoulder as though hiding, and struggles to swallow her tears as Dunedhelgur arrives. "I am sorry, Galena," the young Cennan murmurs. "I tried.. I didn't.." she sniffles. "I am sorry." After a moment, she adds behind Glasiel's fair voice, "Well, mayhap 'twould be all right to give my cousin a little time ere seeing his wounds, aye?"   
  
"Sister..you are here??" Dunedhelgur's query seems to question Glasiel's purpose in the Greenhouse and not in the infirmary, tending to sick. Perhaps a quick stock-take on the herbs?  
  
Glasiel sighs, nodding reluctantly at Caelwen. "Aye, that could be permitted, 'though it worries me." She flashes a look to her brother, a mixture of worry and apology, and then inclines her head toward Lothdaimoth. "My apologies, sir. I mean only well, and if I sometimes seem overly persistent, it comes from a sincere heart and a desire to see the injured healed. I suppose I should give you some space to recover yourself from your journey, as your ocusin suggests. Even though it troubles my heart to say so."   
  
Each of Galena's words fall on Lothdaimoth like cast stones, bringing his head lower until nothing of his expression can be seen. He stands silent beneath her accusations, until blindly, he turns back towards the door. Caelwen, Glasiel's apology, all are ignored.   
  
Galena lifts her face from her hands and takes a swift step to stand before Lothdaimoth as he tries to leave. She half-trips over Dunedhelgur, but her eyes never leave her friend. Once before him, her pale hands clasp either side of Lothdaimoth's face. "Look at me, my dearest mellon. You and I have been through much together. You aided me through my own torment. Let me help you now as you once helped me. Do not leave me to worry." Her voice holds an aching sorrow, yet seems to offer soothing nonetheless. Her eyes implore him to listen.  
  
Caelwen's arm falls from Lothdaimoth, a step taken to follow him before she stops. Tears slip in silence down her cheeks as she watches her cherished cousin with heartbroken eyes, but she says nothing. A shaking hand raises to cover her mouth, and a wrenching cry of pain slips from behind it.   
  
Glasiel stands back, clutching herself in an attempt at comfort during the tense moment before her. She doesn't speak more, however, and merely hopes with all her might that Galena's efforts find success. Subconsciously, she starts humming softly, a healing melody aimed at calming the fea. And there is no calm fea in the greenhouse presently, so such a song is dearly needed.   
  
Caelwen's cry brings Lothdaimoth to a halt, and his mask slips. Behind it, a depth of anguish and guilt twists his face. "Caelwen.." The words are jerked out hoarsely, and Galena is still ignored under the influence of this greater pain. Unable to bear any longer the heartbreak his failure has brought to these he loves, he pulls away from her as if she isn't even there. Moving towards the door, his face still turned to the ground, he runs full into Dunedhelgur. A single haunted glance upwards in what he can summon of apology and he stops again. The way to the door is blocked on two sides now.   
  
"Hold on there my young lad.." half restraining, half looking slightly cross with his 'antics'. "An apology would at least be in order here..?!" Dunedhelgur's voice now sounding quite stern.  
  
Lothdaimoth's hoarse cry of her name spurs Caelwen forward, and the younger cousin looks at both Galena and Dunedhelgur. "Leave him be, leave him be," she pleads. "He will surely be better for a bit of time alone." She shudders with the tension, shoulders hunching, and finds a calming hum working into her nerves. Her eyes briefly search for it, and a grateful look is given to Glasiel.   
  
Galena offers a relieved and thankful glance to Dunedhelgur. The soothing song Glasiel sings strengthens her resolve. A gentle hand motions to Caelwen, though her eyes are trained upon Lothdaimoth. "Talk with me, mellon. Let us, Calewen, you and myself, walk together and speak. Surely you will not deny me that. I care for you and your cousin. This you surely know. Lothdaimoth. I will not leave you." Her gaze and words are soft and melodic, though her eyes still cling to her sorrow. Yet it is clear a greater purpose than herself is risen before her.   
  
Agony of spirit, despair, terrible guilt - all these vanish in the instant behind a wall of implacable reserve. Formally, Lothdaimoth bows his head and then lifts his eyes to Dunedhelgur's face. "My apologies. I .. was distracted. If you will excuse me." Still no heed to is paid to those behind him; even the song is denied and his gaze goes meaningfully to the door and back.

Glasiel continues to hum, the melody growing louder and gaining strength. Not loud enough to overpower speech, but rather more full in intensity. Her eyes close with her effort to work what good she can despite opposition.   
  
Caelwen frowns at Galena, obviously faintly irritated. The soothing song stays any further speech from her, and bright peridot eyes look to Lothdaimoth, almost as though searching for a clue about what action to take.   
  
At the prompt apology of the young edhel, Dunedhelgur relented and released his gaze on him. "Before you are excused, would you tell me why are you in such a rush??" he presses for an answer.    
  
Lothdaimoth's eyes close again. But when they open, still no expression can be discerned in their depths. And his grave even voice goes on. "I would prefer not to speak of it. I thank you for your concern." Once more he looks at the door - through which still someone else is arriving, and an almost frantic light flickers in his eyes.   
  
Galena grips her hair and shakes her head. "Mellon, I shall detain you no longer! I am here, I offer my services, find me or have me found if you need me or die!" With that she storms through the door and all who stand in her way, barreling into the path beyond and hurling herself onward. Her sobs mingle with the sound of the bells she wears.   
  
Caelwen's jaw drops, her mouth a perfect circle of shock at Galena's behavior. Her own tears have waned, and she eases closer to Lothdaimoth, a hand tentatively reaching toward him. She attempts an apologetic smile to Dunedhelgur.   
  
The older elf searches Lothdaimoth's face, then nods and steps aside, saying naught further and letting him pass. He gapes after Galena, then frowns and shakes his head.  Manners! his expression seems to say.    
  
Galena's outburst breaks through Glasiel's trance-like humming. Her song dies away into silence, and she gapes after the departing elleth for a moment, before regaining her power of speech. "Wait, Cousin!" And with that, she follows swiftly, leaving the other visitors to their grief.   
  
Lothdaimoth flinches as Galena runs past him, her bitter words echoing in his ears. And seeing that the path out is now open before him, he also leaves. Long legs taking deceptively slow strides that nonetheless carry him out of sight quite rapidly.  Behind him, Caelwen drops her hand, miserably watching him until he can't be seen any longer.


	17. Among The Grapes

_None of the Galadhrim, and few of those who dwell in Imladris have seen Lothdaimoth seen since he vanished from the greenhouse a few days back. Some have looked for him, asking Caelwen if she knows; but she only smiled and shook her head. If she did know, she was unwilling to say.  But now, as the heat of the midsummer sun pours down golden from a flawless blue sky, she comes to the vineyards, her bare feet soft on the hot dirt._

Beneath the, dark and light green leaves stretch yearningly upwards; and huddling in darkness beneath them are the smoothly rounded bundles of ripening grapes. Among the trellises are a few scattered workers, and down one row almost in the middle of the field, a figure sits motionless. Long dark hair drags uncared for in the dirt. And nearly covered by the protecting leaves, he leans against the wooden poles, eyes shut.

The sun bakes into Caelwen's bared shoulders. She slips between two rows of grapevine, bright eyes marvelling at the trellises, and makes her slow way down them, loose copper curls shining cleanly in the midday light. She begins to walk faster, step graceful and flowing, unjarring to the body, and turns at the end of the row. Her light footfalls take her quickly across the vineyards, and she turns exactly down the path where Lothdaimoth sits. She slows when she nears him, then stops and studies him for a while. Then she lowers herself to the ground, several paces away and watches him uncertainly.   
  
After a long time in silence, Lothdaimoth says in a conversational voice, never opening his eyes. "Did you know they have several varieties of grapes here that we do not grow? I wonder if I could get some cuttings, or perhaps rootstock." His face is pale, emotionless as marble. The bandage on his arm might be the same one Caelwen saw in the greenhouse a few days past - still bloody, perhaps a little dirtier. And his clothing is certainly the same.   
  
Caelwen's chin ducks down to her chest, shy apple-green eyes watching him for a long pause. Her voice is gentle, cautious but calm. "No, I did not know that. Their wine is certainly different. I'm sure the rest of the vintners back home would love to see this new wine, too." Her fingers fiddle nervously with her skirt, smoothing our wrinkles, tugging the hem straight against the grass.   
  
"Yes. I wonder how they make it. It would be nice to spend a little time with them and watch." Quiet, uninflected, his voice shows no sign whatsoever of the ragged tearing tension that had been there not so long ago. Indeed, it shows no sign of anything at all. "I wonder if it is the manner of the making, or the grape that makes the difference."   
  
"I wonder if they would let us take some. I really don't know much about these Imladhrim yet," Caelwen crawls a bit closer to him, setting her teeth against the remnants of pain that this movement brings her not-quite-healed-ribs. She settles herself again to sit right next to him, wide grape-leaves swaying about her and shading her a bit from the unrelenting sun. "I haven't met many of the Gwaith-I-Thein here. I met a carpenter, but didn't get to talk to him, much." One hand, lifts to brush away a leaf so she can see him.   
  
"I do not know." It doesn't really sound as if he cares either. The leaves and curled newborn tendrils of the grapes surrounding Lothdaimoth shiver and rub together. Another pause while the soft whisper of their movement is all that can be heard. Then, "A carpenter. You must be sure to tell Rosgwaen."   
  
Caelwen's tone gains a very soft teasing lilt to it. "I am sure Rosgwaen already knows they have carpenters here. Although.." she pauses, turning to look at the vines across from this row. "Everything is so strange here. I've never thought of catching plants like they do. Like in that glass house, and here, where they build trellises for the grapes." She just rattles on calmly. "But I suppose it's not so very odd... we do have grapevines growing in the trellises at Dinlom Talan, and they don't have any Mellyrn here, so I suppose they must make do." Her head slowly turns back to her cousin through this, and a hand reaches out for his, fingertips tentatively brushing.   
  
Still there is no response, in body, face or tone. Beyond the casual uncaring words that he speaks, Lothdaimoth might be something carven, not living. "They have no mellyrn here," he echoes. "Tis a pity, for I should like to climb one.. still I suppose the grapes will do." Maybe there was movement among the vines  - it is difficult to tell. But the air around Lothdaimoth's head seems a little fuller, greener than before.   
  
A moment's hesitation, and Caelwen's hand withdraws. "I saw a very large tree of some other sort-- oak, I believe-- in a meadow nearby, but I cannot climb yet with these ribs. It wasn't near the size of a mallorn, but mayhap you could climb it and tell me if it is any of the same." The younger cousin's tone continues easy, chatty, but her ageless face is beginning to become a bit tighter with strain. "I do agree, the grapes are sufficing nicely for you. Mayhap grapes are grapes wherever you go." Her eyes watch him unwavering.   
  
"Ah yes. I have been up there. Last .. last time we were here." For the first time, there is the tiniest break in Lothdaimoth's soft unvarying tone. But it is gone like frost melting in the morning sun, gone as if it had never been. "It is quite pleasant in its way. You should climb up there sometime." Flickering sunlight filters down through the thickly enveloping greenery, creating dancing shadows across the shadowy grey of his shirt.   
  
Caelwen eases just the least bit closer, leaves shushing around her as though complaining about her action. "I can't climb, though," she replies softly. "In a way, it is a little nice that I should have this injury here, because we do climb an awful lot at home." She gives a weak smile, and reaches again for his hand, restlessly.   
  
Possibly the leaves are protesting Caelwen's actions; they certainly seem thicker where she tries to edge her way in. Gentle fingers brush the back of Lothdaimoth's hand and a vague disquiet moves in his face. Again, it is gone almost before it begins. But around him, grape leaves whisper uncomfortably.   
  
Caelwen stops moving, but lets her fingers lie on the back of his hand this time. A long pause allows the leaves to complain as they will, until the fair whisper of an elven-voice joins the whispers of plants. "Are you going to sleep, as I did? Before...?" She stops, saying nothing else of that sleep of despair that would have drawn her spirit from her body.   
  
Lothdaimoth is quiet for a time, maybe he is considering this, maybe he has just run out of things to say. High above them a curlew calls; its voice clear and sweet. Imperceptibly, the sun has moved in the sky, the shadows slowly lengthen across the fields of grapes. "I..."   
  
Caelwen seems satisfied with this, or at least doesn't press further. The Indiri then tilts her head sideways, mingling her curls with leaves and vines, and rests her temple gently against the lattice wall, eyes closing. She allows her fingers to lie across the back of her cousin's hand as time passes, shadows lengthen a bit, and a little more of immortal life slips by unnoticed. Eventually, after a few minutes, or maybe an hour, she whispers again. "I'm terribly upset by what Galena said to you. I do pray you do not take it to heart. If she were your family, surely she would have said naught like that."   
  
Were Caelwen watching, she might see the smallest return of tension; or perhaps instead she may feel it, as Lothdaimoth freezes (as if he wasn't motionless already) and then retreats into himself. Dark eyes open, staring through the leaves at something only he can see; wounded holes in the whiteness of his face. "Have you met many people yet, cousin? And tell me, how do you like the Peredhel's valley so far? Tis very lovely, is it not? Although it cannot compare to Lothlorien." His voice is like ice - hard and brittle, covering all that lies below.  
  
Caelwen's eyes drift open, copper lashes a bit dusky in the shade. Her other hand lifts, reaches through the vines, and the Indiri leans forward a little to brush hair back from Lothdaimoth's brow. "It is a pale shadow compared to home, but paradise in a cup compared to the rest of the world." Her own grief creeps into her voice by the end, but she tries to hide it with a false cheerful lilt. "I have met some people, all strangers, but they have been kind to me."

The pain in Caelwen's voice, hide it as she may, is noticed and Lothdaimoth stiffens a little more. His gaze roams restlessly over the waving green and gold of the grapevines, with their small bunches of purpling grapes hanging below. "I am glad to hear this .. I .. " He moves as if to rise, and in the motion, a vine slides caressingly across his face. Barely suppressed panic recedes again and he relaxes just a fraction.   
  
Caelwen leans forward, brushing aside the vines and stretching to place a kiss on her cousin's cheek as she often does. "Don't go. I think even Imladris' vines like you." A weak smile, and the Cennan levers herself up with another wince. "Namarie," she says, trying to keep her voice light and calm. "It eases me to see you resting." She lingers a moment, looking down at him, then turns and walks slowly away.   
  
Obedient to her command, or unwilling anyways to move, Lothdaimoth does stay under the vines that drape themselves around him, lingering on black hair and whispering over rough fabric. Long after she has left, he still is there while the shadows stretch and grow, creeping across the fields. Night falling on; the stars circle brilliantly overhead - and still he remains: unmoving, unspeaking, wordlessly avoided by those who work among the grapes.


	18. A Decision Made

_Time stretched and blurred and became meaningless.  Lost in anguish and bitter guilt, Lothdaimoth had no idea if one day or many has passed - light and darkness melted into one another leaving him adrift somewhere between them. But at last, in the bleakness of his soul, he had found an answer that gave him rest.  He could not atone for Erinstar's death, nor the grief his failure had brought upon his friends, but he could make sure they would never be hurt because of him again._

_He stood up and brushed his clothes clean, his face joyless but determined.  He would have to speak with Elrond and.. but his thoughts winced away from Caelwen. Hir Elrond would inform her and the others.  It would be better that way.  And better that it were done now.  He combed his hair out with his fingers.  There was nothing he could do about the dirty bandage about his arm, but at least he looked reasonably presentable now. It was strange - there was no one working in the vineyards this... he looked up at the sun... this morning.  He dismissed it from his mind.  It didn't matter._

_At the edge of the vineyard, he stopped, a faint frown on his face as a horn rang out clear and high, followed by a sudden burst of music.  What...?  In the distance, he could see a crowd of elves, and more coming every minute.  They seemed to be swirling in and out and around some kind of dais ringed with banners.  And there, coming from the House with Arwen at his side, was Elrond. Clad in white, the Master of the Valley, led his daughter towards the stands, pausing here and there to exchange a greeting or a kind word. Equally warm of expression though more quiet, Arwen walked by her father's side, a faint smile on her face at sight of the decorations, visible, audible, and living.  Lothdaimoth sighed.  He could hardly approach the Master here in the middle of what seemed to be some manner of celebration. But perhaps after, as Elrond left... Lothdaimoth set his shoulders and walked swiftly down the incline.  Among all these people, he would easily be able to avoid seeing anyone he knew._

_Caelwen looked shyly around the crowded field.  She had put on all the finery she had brought with her (though the gown itself was a loan) and her bruises and scrapes were gone now, but still she felt underdressed in this throng of glittering elves.  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Galena, and hurriedly turned away. But as if by some sense beyond ken, Galena felt Caelwen's glance fall upon her. Silently, cautiously she made her way towards the potter. Tucking a stray hair nervously behind an ear, she curtsied and she reached out her hand to Caelwen. "Please forgive me, mellon. I have much weight upon my fea and do wish you would ease that much of my burden."_

_Like some odd sort of shy woodland creature who knows not even the kindness of elves, Caelwen slipped a step or two away from Galena, her bright eyes wide and wary. "And now I must ask for your forgiveness, mellon," came her low reply, "I have borne far too much grieving of my own of late to bear any further burden. I must beg that we speak on this another time." The young potter turned away from her fellow Galadhrim, and pasted a thin smile on her face as she noticed Glasiel hovering nearby. "How fare you?" she queried, her voice strained but friendly. "Has my cousin been yet to see you? I pray that he has."_

_Galena turned to mask the tears that filled her eyes. Gaining control of some semblance of herself she nodded and whispered, "Another time," then walked away. The shadows of nearby trees beckoned her to them, and blindly, she crumpled to the ground beneath them. Here she let her heavy pack fall away to rest upon soft grass, and wiped her cheeks, trying not to show she was weeping._

_At an unseen signal, the line of trumpeters pulled up their instruments in one choreographed movement and sounded a short salutary call. The din of the crowd began to hush to a low hum of voices and movement as the spectators found seats. Caelwen's shoulders hunched as Galena walked away, but Glasiel stepped softly between the two Galadhrim, and quietly took Caelwen's hand. Her eyes were concerned and caring, although she sighed and shook her head. "Nay, and I have been anxiously awaiting his visit. I feared to chase after him, lest he retreat even further. . ." Her words fell away as she saw Galena sink to the ground beneath the trees. "Forgive me? I should see to Galena. She seems much disturbed of fea." Caelwen nodded, a small worried look flitting over her face. But she said nothing more, only finding herself a seat among the others._

_Just as she sat down, Both Arwen and her father rose from their own seats on the dais, and the Master of the Valley cleared his throat. The sound was faint, not even audible above the fading talk and laughter among the elves, but still, most everyone turned their attention towards the Herdir._  
  
"Friends and welcome guests," he started, in a voice both ringing and clear, "we have come together to celebrate and be merry at the beginning of festive days. Undoubtedly we will see the best of all who will take part in the competitions to take place, and perhaps a shadow of the old glory that once was the elves' will be glimpsed through you and your deeds; no matter whether you will call yourselves winners or defeated, it is the bearing you will show that makes you stand out as honoured." Elrond reached out and takes up a glass, "Even the vintners of the Valley acknowledge this, and half the credit for what you see is rightfully theirs." He raised his goblet in silent salute, taking a sip of the red wine before both he and Lady Arwen took their seats again.   


_Over the hushed stir of the crowd, drummers began to sound a steady, stirring beat. The rows of horses in decorated tack, which had been standing at attention near the grandstand, now bore equally finely-dressed riders. They were representatives of the Noble Houses of Imladris. As a drum roll sounds, the riders stepped forward through the line of trumpeters, taking up the banner of their House. Interspersed among them were also riders of various squads of the Imladris Guard, bearing the uniforms and polished weapons that attest to their particular skill. From the platform, a herald began to call out names. One by one, the riders moved onto the field from either end, passing in front of the audience in two lines._  
  
"Nos Airenelen!"    
  
"Nos Ecthelion!" As the procession continued, Tatharwen stares in wonder at the spectacle of riders and banners. On the platform, heads of the Tirith have taken seats next to Elrond and Arwen according to their rank. She sat on the far end and watched the parade go by. "Nos Fithurin!" 

_Swinging herself lightly onto a glossy red stallion, Ailiell caught up her banner from an attendant, and followed the line out --dressed with less finery, perhaps, than those about her, but no less proud. The banner billowed out behind her, with the emblem of Gonnmar that was lost steadily raised aloft in the midday sun._

_"Nos Losloriel!" The colorful procession of Noble House representatives and Tirith continued, and when the riders had passed before the grandstand, they turned to make a line around the whole of the tournament field. At each corner and spaced in between, they stopped and attendants took the banners, securing them into the earth. Gradually the field was hemmed in by a line of brightly colored banners, snapping smartly in the breeze, and in between, the riders standing at attention. "Nos Olormaranwe!"_

_At the cry, Randinen nudged his mount forward and bent to accept the sable banner of Nos Olormaranwe; upon it in pride a yellow sunburst with flames rising to a single argent star._

_Rhunedhel came next, Martion beside him. The banner with its rose in crystal billowed, an emblem of the eastern city that was lost, as so many have been lost. They rode proudly, though, and if Martion seemed a panther, Rhunedhel was every inch the image of wisdom and grace. Caelwen watched them interestedly, wondering a little sadly how many of these people Lothdaimoth knew.  'I wish he was here,' she thought unhappily.  He would tell her about them, and make her laugh._

_"Nos Ruigano!" the herald continued. "Nos Menelmen!"  And finally, "Nos Earendil!"  There was an explosion of clapping as the well-loved banner of the Lords of Imladris appeared on the field. It was, appropriately enough, the largest and most grand, and its bearer placed it directly behind the platform where Elrond and Arwen were seated._

_The herald began to speak again, but Caelwen barely heard him.  Despite herself, her eyes were scanning the crowd.  Maybe he was here.  Maybe he had come, after all.  He couldn't stay out there in the vineyards forever, after all - if nothing else, he would need to eat.  Wouldn't he?  Every tall dark-haired elf caught her attention, her heart quickening. "...the proud arts of archery and fencing..." the herald continued.  There, was that him?  Caelwen's mouth was dry with the hope she couldn't squash.  She half-rose in her seat, then slumped back, disappointed._

_The voice of the herald caught her ear.  "... vintners have prepared a special delight for your enjoyment. In honor of the occasion, a new vintage of wine is being unveiled for the first time during these games. The winners of each event will be the first to receive a bottle. Later, the whole Valley will have opportunity to sample the new vintage at a garden party near the end of the festivities." Wistfully, Caelwen thought how much Lothdaimoth would have loved that - to taste it carefully, rolling the wine around his mouth, and guess what had gone into its making.  It was a game he loved, and she loved to watch him at it; though for herself, she never could guess.  She just liked to drink it and savor the taste, not spend time worrying about how it had been made._

_Music was playing again, a bright dancing melody, and the crowd surged up again, some beginning to dance, others swirling towards tables of food and wine. Caelwen shook herself from her reverie and stood up._

_Alone, a bubble of silence seeming to envelop him despite the noise and gaiety of the crowd, Lothdaimoth stood in the shadow of a single tree. His dark, charcoal-colored eyes watched the festivities distantly, and a small smile sat oddly on his face. Once, his glance lighted on the far figure of Caelwen and the smile froze. Replacing it at once, Lothdaimoth looked away and didn't allow his gaze to return to that section of the field again. The procession of banner-bearers went on and on, winding finally to an end, but though he looked that way, he wasn't really watching them._

_Impatience banged at the inside of his skull, and it took an effort of will not to barge straight across the field through all the horses and riders, and demand to speak with the Lord of the Valley.  Now.  Finally, unable to stay still any longer_ _, Lothdaimoth started to work his way down the field towards the musicians and the dais where Elrond and Arwen still sat.  Father and daughter were laughing at something, Arwen plucking flowers mischievously from her father's hair and clothes. The laughter seemed to widen Lothdaimoth's glued-on smile, but it never reached his eyes. Dark and shadowed, they remained impassive and aloof. He stopped again not far from where the Lord and Lady sat - but they were surrounded. There was no way of getting a private word, not here, not now - there was no way of even letting Hir Elrond know he wanted a private word. Lothdaimoth's mouth quirked sourly. And how private would it be, anyways, here amid all these people.  He had been a fool to think..._

_"Lothdaimoth, is it not?"  A voice near his elbow brought his head around, the smile slammed back into place.  "Yes?" he said, politely._

_"I am Faerlin and this is Nyashcala.  I - that is we - have long heard tales of the great trees on Lothlorien...but never met one who could tell us of them.." The Imladrhim lady's voice trailed off hopefully.  "What would you know?" Lothdaimoth asked, still politely.  His eyes strayed towards the dais - "I daresay I could tell you some few things about them." It was Nyashcala who replied, though Faerlin listened with as much eagerness as her friend.  "I would hear as much of the great trees as you could tell, mellon! I have lived my whole life in Elrond's valley, and the greatest tree I know is our Great Oak. I should think such trees as the fabled mallorn would make a wonderful song."_

_Hesitantly, Faerlin interrupted. "Your arm," she says.  "Is it healing well?" The tall Galadhrim looked down at his bandaged arm. "I do not know how it heals," he said, uncaring, his voice dismissive. "It was an arrow wound." There was no emotion at all in his face, as he turned towards Nyashcala. "There is nothing like them anywhere. I know of your Oak, I have climbed it and it is indeed a grand tree, but the mallyrn..." His eyes unfocused - seeing things only found in memory, or many many miles off. "I never made a song about them, although a poem once. They are.. wondrous above all else that I have seen."_

_Suddenly, a great longing for the Golden Wood filled him, and he was lost in a rustle of leaves and the high faint singing of the wind. Within the memory, as if it were a dream, a high green hill rose before him and white walls... It was as if he could reach out and touch it. Were there mellyrn oversea, he wondered? For an instant, he wavered, then he remembered that Erinstar would never see them again either, because of him.  He shook his head in renewed determination.  There was no other choice. He returned to himself to realized that Nyashcala and Faerlin were looking at him oddly. "Are.. are you well, mellon?" Nyashcala asked diffidently.  He nodded curtly, and turned away, and scowled, frustrated.  While he had been distracted, Elrond and Arwen had risen and gone.  Lothdaimoth scanned the crowd hurriedly, catching a flash of white at last.  There!_

_He slid through the throng, finding his way blocked again and again by clusters of elves talking, laughing, eating; and having to turn and backtrack, and all but push his way through.  Now and then, he caught a glimpse of Elrond Half-elven's black head bent to speak with someone; his face lifted in laughter or song; the white of his raiment glowing in the sun; and pressed on.  But it never seemed he got any closer._

_"Thank you, mellon," Caelwen said softly. She bowed her head for a little while, flower petals falling to the ground around her, and covered the cup Celebren had brought her to keep the petals from landing in her wine.  "What is it that you do?" she asked, and brightened as he replied. "A silversmith! So is my aunt -- well, really, I suppose she'd be my mother's cousin.  But aunt is easier. That is Loth-Lothdaimoth's mother."  Her voice faltered for just a second, before she went on, giving a terse little laugh. "I have a cousin who is a jewelsmith. Tell me more of your crafters. What of the Potters? Or Bakers? My family-- my whole house, really-- has many in the Gwaith-I-Thein."  
_

___Celebren smiled. "There are fine potters and jewelmiths here. Their work is quite amazing. You must speak with them while you visit; I am sure they would welcome you to their workshops. I would certainly love to learn the skills of others - your aunt as you called her did not come, did she?" There was a wistful tone to his voice. "But perhaps I could ask Lothdaimoth, or did he not follow his mother's path?"  Caelwen swallowed and shook her head.  "No," she said, "He spent many years guarding the borders, until Silgethir was..." She hesitated, looking at Celebren uncertainly.  The memory of how Rhulalaith had reacted was very clear in her mind.  Finally, she said it baldly. "He was killed.  By orcs."  Celebren's face stilled in shock. After a minute, he shook his head.  "We are very sheltered here. There are those, you saw them, the guards, who leave the valley; but most of us never do."_

_Caelwen nodded. "After that, he stopped going on patrol, and joined himself to the counsel for the Lord and Lady. But now he has begun to be a vintner as well." A sudden memory blinded her - her cousin wrapped in pain and grief and guilt, finding what small solace he could in this foreign place - she turned her head to dry her eyes, hoping the Imladhrim elf hadn't seen her tears._

_The crowd opened in front of Lothdaimoth, and he started forward, then stopped abruptly. Despite his determined efforts to avoid her, Caelwen has appeared directly in front of him. His facade of merriment and good cheer broke open. Underneath, a burden of guilt and anguish appeared; so swiftly hidden again that it would not be seen by any not looking at his face in that instant. "Caelwen.." he said, so soft as to be almost unheard - and then the mask dropped into place again and his face hardened imperceptibly. He turned, edging farther into the crowd, hoping she hadn't seen him. Only his eyes betrayed him still._

_He found himself trapped by a long white-clothed table, goblets and wine bottles spread out across it, and stared at it blankly. "Have you tried the wines?" It is Faerlin again. After he had left, she had come here herself, directly though, and on purpose. "If you will put up with my company, this is a particularly good red..." She smiled in an attempt to lighten the mood that seemed to have settled over the guest.  "Your company requires no 'putting up with'," Lothdaimoth responded with automatic courtesy. His dark eyes were firmly shuttered again, smile plastered in place. But his gaze never stopped its restless roaming: from table to Faerlin to wine and back. At last he reached for a glass. "I have not tried it. Would you like a drink?"_  
  
Faerlin nodded barely perceptibly but replied swiftly, "Yes, that would be wonderful, thank you. A glass of red wine, especially this one, and I am happy." She didn't fail to notice Lothdaimoth's restlessness - so in contrast with the smile that was seemingly carved into his face. Her voice dropped to one of almost confidential nature, "Though that is more than I would say of you, mellon, despite that smile." 

_Lothdaimoth reached with his injured arm for a bottle of the indicated red wine. A wince tightened the muscles of his face, but he ignored it and began to pour. "Tell me a little about your wines, if you can?" he said. Wary eyes lifted swiftly to Faerlin's face at her quiet comment, but then returned to the burbling flow of liquid that splashed into the glass._

_Faerlin mused for a moment, watching as the crimson liquid is poured like liquid velvet into the crystal glass. "Well.." she began and then paused, a note of amusement in her eyes "..I don't know anything of note about them other than that if it's red I usually like it..Tatharwen's family.. I take it you met her?..produce some excellent vintages, I have had the good fortune to taste some." She smiled. "I don't believe you told me what you do.."_  
  
"No. I have not met Tatharwen or her family. At least, not that I know of." Filled nearly to the brim, Lothdaimoth held out the glass for Faerlin to take. Beneath the white cloth about hiss arm, a small spreading stain darkened his grey sleeve. "I am a vintner," he said lightly. "As well as a member of the Arnpand. That is our Lady's council."   
  
Faerlin took the glass between nimble fingers and admires the colour for a moment. "I shall have to tell Tatharwen to speak with you then; she'll want to swap thoughts on wine making, I am sure. I think I said, I'm a singer primarily, though also a tracker.." She raised the glass to her lips and took a sip, enjoying the warm and complex taste. 

___The aftenoon was still warm despite the blanket of clouds which masked the sun's lazy descent, the air thick and almost stifling in the late of summer. Unrelenting, until now, for the faintest of winds that suddenly stirred and slipped away, fading as abruptly and inexplicably as it had come. All returned to stillness then, as if unchanged by such a curious stroke of chance, except... Far in the corner of the eye, an unobtrusive shadow lurked. Motionless, unassuming, it simply stood upon the northern field beside the sprawl of roses as a solitary statue taken from its place. Sable raiment clung ragged to pale and bloodied skin, and stormy eyes shifted wearily from the earth unto the sky with an unspoken prayer._

_"Elbereth! Lothdaimoth!" Caelwen's scream brought Lothdaimoth's head whipping around. Dark eyes went immediately to where she lay in a heap on the ground and almost throwing the wine bottle aside, he ran full-tilt across the field towards her - woe betide any in his way. Skidding to his knees beside his cousin, he reached for her. "What is it? Caelwen!" Even as he spoke, his frantic hands felt at her head, her neck; and his eyes searched the field hunting what could have caused such distress. And so, as hers did before him, they lit upon the figure of ... a ghost. The blood drained from his face, leaving it white and all movement ceased. For minutes uncounted, he stared; then one shaking hand was lifted to his temple. "E-Erinstar?" It was no more than a hoarse whisper. Stumbling to his feet, his cousin forgotten, the young vintner stood swaying, his eyes never leaving this apparition that has returned to the living from beyond the shores of hope._

_Behind Lothdaimoth, a young healer flew after the edhel, light feet only just skimming the ground as she followed in his steps. Taking in the fallen elleth and the silent apparition all at a glance, Ailiell murmured an oath before calling back firmly, "Someone, go to the Halls of Healing. Fetch help. Now!"_

_Turning as Caelwen cried out and fell, the Herald of Galadriel - for it is indeed, he - stepped forward at last. Slowly, each stumbling step deliberate that he might not fall, he came across the field with agonizing effort. No glorious cloak flutters behind him as he moves, no brightly emblazoned shield adorns his arm, yet still despite his torment, he is ever graceful. He knelt with a grimace beside Caelwen. One hand, still gloved, fell lightly upon her brow while the other clutched at his own ribcage with the movement. After a time, he muttered to Lothdaimoth softly, still hoarse, "Your arm is bleeding."_  
  
For a moment the healer wavered, uncertain who was in most dire need of assistance. Swiftly she knelt by the ashen elleth, though her eyes remained on the bloody stranger. Unloosing her cloak, she quickly folded it into a bundle and gently lifted Caelwen's head, sliding the makeshift pillow underneath. Turning her dark glance briefly on Lothdaimoth, she frowned. "What...?" she asked, supremely bewildered. "How have you injured yourself...?" One hand went out to his arm, the other fumbled for a pouch about her waist, and it seemed she was lacking the third, fourth and fifth needed. "Oh, this is ridiculous," she muttered, and looking back over her shoulder called, once more, more sharply this time, "Please, mellyn. Someone fetch more aid!" 

_Lothdaimoth's eyes tracked every motion the Herald made, until he dropped to his knees beside Caelwen's motionless form. In utter confusion, shock still holding him silent, he gazed downwards. But the few words Erinstar spoke, so incongruous compared with his own injuries jar Lothdaimoth to movement. Falling to his own knees, this only partially controlled, he shook his head. Slowly, he reached out across the fallen elleth - fingers just brushing Erinstar's shoulder before they were pulled back. And the dam that was erected broke. Burying his face in both hands, he crouched motionless. Ailiell's question and touch weren't even noticed as first one tear and then another seeped out from between his fingers._

_Behind him another voice is raised. "You heard Ailiell, did you not? Run! To the Halls of the Healers. We need them." Nyashcala moved to Ailiell's side. "How may I help you, mellon? I know nothing but the things my mother taught me of cuts and bruises when I was younger...but you need extra hands, I can see." With a quick, grateful glance for Nyashcala, Ailiell unfastened her belt, handing it to her. "Catnip, geranium root powder..." she muttered to herself, thinking quickly for a moment. "No, all else must be brought from the Infirmary. Er...we may crush the catnip beneath Caelwen's nose, though I've little confidence it will wake her. Weariness and grief have weighed heavily on her for days on end." With calm focus, she turned back then to Lothdaimoth. "First, though -- mellon, please..." she began softly, touching Lothdaimoth. "We need to stop this bleeding." She glanced grimly to Nyashcala, whispering, "If he will let you, put pressure on his wound." Looking then to the haggard Erinstar she continued, "Friend, how are you injured? Will you sit, please? I'll not have you following Caelwen's lead."_

_Erinstar gently placed a hand upon Lothdaimoth's shoulder in reassurance. "Spare your grief, friend. All is well, and by your hand. You have my thanks, and respect." Still without breaking his gaze, he offered a vague nod to the healer who hovered nearby, though whether in agreement or simply acknowledgement was hard to tell. Still, he did not move, but remained kneeling upon the earth at the side of his kinsmen, relieved and grateful if only for their presence._

_"I did nothing, save abandon you to death," Lothdaimoth whispered. "And not once, but twice. Do not hank me." At last, Lothdaimoth lowered his hands and lifted his head, tears still spilling unashamedly down his cheeks. "But tell me, how have you come here? I looked for days - until Caelwen fell ill - and found no sign of you save your armor." Such unimportant matters as an unhealing arrow wound, the healers who gathered around them; all were dismissed as dark eyes hold to lighter ones._

_Around them, elves clustered and conferred, unfolding bandages, bringing herbs. Voices rose and fell, people came and went, but Erinstar and Lothdaimoth paid no attention.  "Yet I am not dead, and Caelwen lives by your wisdom. Twas not an easy path I left you to tread, and I apologize for that." Bowing his head but a moment, Erinstar inhaled deeply as his expression grew pained before being swiftly masked. "By the grace of the Valar, or whatever luck still resides within me, I managed to shed my armour before it drowned me and dragged myself to shore. I hid myself then, and lay as if dead for many days - the passage of time I cannot recall. When I recovered, it was the sound of battle which stirred me, and the trail of your blood which led me safely here. I know not what hands may have guided my fate, but I am glad that they have allowed me to see you once more alive and well." Quieting then, he motioned with a tilt of his head towards the growing cluster of attendants, as if to direct Lothdaimoth to their ministrations. The Herald himself remained still, folding his hands within his lap as he waited in silence._

_"Apologize! For saving her life?" Healers were fussing around them, annoyances easily brushed aside. "By their grace indeed." Lothdaimoth shook his head slowly, amazement and disbelief melding in his face, and finally looked away. His eyes went to the one closest to him, Ailiell. "He jumped from the cliff to free her." The vintner's face turned inward as memories crowded through his mind. "I heard .. heard him hit the water. And then the rocks." Now that he was no longer keeping an impassive, even cheerful mask fixed in place, each passing thought brought a corresponding expression. "Then he freed her and brought her to shore, only to loose hold of the rope and vanish. I know not how long he was under water - tis a thing beyond all hope that he yet lives." Sharply he turned back to the Herald. "Your ribs.. they must have broken in the impact. And that you still could carry her..."_

_Erinstar looked uncomfortable as Lothdaimoth began to retell the events past, eventually raising a hand and murmuring gently, "Peace, Lothdaimoth. I am no hero, and you are in no condition to be distraught. Let it pass, for now. I will rest here a time, and we may speak when you are recovered... Caelwen should be tended 'fore she wakes, and I shall think your company will ease her heart when she does. Go with them, if for her only." He turned a brief glance towards Ailiell then, a nod accompanied by a weak smile. "Thank you," he added, though to whom was unclear._

_Ailiell frowned at Lothdaimoth, lifting a bandage herself to forcibly gind his arm, but then he looked up at her, a dark, painful complexity of expression written in his face. Absently she lowered her hands, carefully attending his tale. By its conclusion, her attention had shifted quite thoroughly to the kneeling Erinstar. She frowned at him instead. "Nay, mellon, I fear we shall not leave you here, either." Looking back to Lothdaimoth she addsed with a gentle smile, "And neither shall you escape our ministrations." And with that, she quickly and deftly tied a stretch of linen about his arm. "Until it can be laid bare in our halls..."_

_"Hero or no, let those who hear judge. I tell no more than I saw." Wincing a little at the tightness of this new bandage, Lothdaimoth still seemed indifferent to the state of his wounded arm, although now perhaps the reasons were beginning to change. A glance was spared for the afflicted limb, but no more and his voice was absent, uncaring, as he replied. "If you will." At last, his mind was cleared enough to return to Caelwen and he watched long enough to be reassured. Those who cared for her would do well by his cousin. And now, the first shock of discovery over, a different sort of lostness grew in the depths of his dark eyes. Seeking something unfound, he looked from one person to the next to the next and finally stood up, shaking Ailiell's hand from his arm as if it were no more than a pestersome insect: not worth the trouble of attending to. "Thank you," he said as an afterthought, but his steps already were carrying him from the field. First slowly, then faster, born by the intensity of some inner urging, he disappeared from sight._


	19. Healing at Last

_As soon as she recovered from her shock, Caelwen slipped from her room and went to where she knew Lothdaimoth would be._

Clear and cool is the night, though not cold for it is high summer and the Peredhel's valley is sheltered from the blasting wind that pour down off the nearer mountains. A few lacy clouds drift with the wind; silver in the serenity of moonlight. And over all stars that spatter the deepness of the blue-black sky move to the soft rhythms of Arda.   
  
An almost palpable sense of peace blankets the sleeping vines, their green leaves turned to black by the night. But just below the edge of hearing, if one could only listen hard enough, is the sound of furious headlong growth. Now is the hour. Now the fruit long awaited and cherished is ripening and there is no time to be lost.   
  
Amid this collision of silence and fury, one tall elf stands motionless in the moonlight. Lothdaimoth's head is bowed over cupped hands and unfettered hair falls loosely down pale cheeks. Around him, the vineyards spread out full and fair, their trellises marching in neat lines from field to field. Around one arm is tied (still) a simple white bandage - at last, the cloth is clean, little or no blood staining its edges.   
  
Like a silver bit of solid moonlight set to rest against blackened and vigorous vines, Caelwen stands in silence at the edge of the vineyard. Her skin is unmarred save for foriegn freckles that dapple it like leaf-shadow, but every breath is still laborious, and her face is set against pain. She watches her cousin for a time like this from afar, then finally begins to creep closer, eyes wary and careful.  
  
One hand moves faintly, turning around whatever he holds, and the vintner raises his head to gaze off across the long rows that surround him on every side. And so a wisp of ghostly pale, standing vertical catches at the corner of his eye and brings his face around. A flicker of some indefinable emotion moves under his face, and he takes half a step towards her before hesitating. Torn between going or staying, he thus remains unmoving.   
  
Caelwen, too, hesitates when he does, her chin ducking down toward her labored chest, eyes wide and watching. Sorrow of some sort flashes across her face, tugging down the corners of her lips. Finally, warily, she begins to move forth with the careful step of one approaching a skittish woodland creature. Even her voice is soft and soothing. "Cousin, are you..." Suddenly, her face crumples, and her voice becomes a wail of hurt. "Why does it pain you so to see me?" She steps back as though startled at the sound of her own voice, and passes a hand before her eyes.   
  
"I..." Lothdaimoth's voice is soft and shamed. The fragile layer of peace that has begun to build itself up again slips aside, revealing depths of guilt and self-despite that still smolder in his soul. Again he tries to speak and again fails. Until despair bows his head and presses his eyelids closed. "Cousin..."   
  
Caelwen stares at Lothdaimoth in swift, horrifying despair, her own mask much thinner than her cousin's and often nonexistant. "I'm sorry, I'll go, I..." Already weeping, tears pouring from her bruised eyes like a flood, she simply grasps the trellis nearest and slides with a loud whimper to her knees, then buries herself among the vines. She presses her brow to the wood, and just sobs at her heartbreak, though she attempts to hide the sound. Both hands curl slowly around a single vine as though to strangle it.   
  
The sound of footfalls--light and unshod--precedes the entrance of a slight figure to the vineyards. Slight, that is but for the growing round of her stomach, an appearance a bit at odds with the rest of the elleth's lithe and graceful air. Nyashcala walks without purpose, but almost immediately upon her entrance she pauses, one foot still rolled on its toes in the motion of a step. She tilts her head, hair cascading in clumsy waves, and turns bright eyes to the source of her interest--the sound of sobbing, quiet but clearly audible to elven ears, within the grape-vine trellises. A frown crosses her brow, and she takes a few soft steps towards the noise.   
  
Horrified, Lothdaimoth stares at the spot where his cousin /had/ stood and slowly shrivels at the sobs which are easily heard. Beneath the now-crushing weights of self-loathing and guilt, which Erinstar's unlookedfor return have only begun to heal, his head sinks lower, shoulders slumping, empty hand slowly curling into a fist. Unable to go to her, unable to leave, he simply stands in the midst of the moon-bathed vines; a tormented anguished figure. The sound of footsteps, normally so easily caught, go unheard.   
  
Caelwen simply wraps herself in a world of sorrow and vines and ripening grapes, and gives vent to her woes, weeping growing more violent and wracking her form until she gives a cry of pain more of the body than spirit, and wraps an arm protectively about her ribs. For a brief while, her sounds are silenced as she pants against the hurt, tears still leaking unminded down her cheeks. As soon as it begins to subside, the young Indiri starts to cry again, eyes pinching shut. Sounds of footfall or the lack thereof are muffled by her own noises.   
  
The sobs have become more ragged, and more intense, and are now accompanied with a strong undercurrent of pain. Nyashcala's pace quickens, and for a moment the statuesque edhel is ignored. Instead, the drummer-elleth moves among the grapes with no attempt to quiet her motions. Soon, she is near to Caelwen, and crouches down by the Galadhrim with a faint and concerned frown played over her face. Her voice is soft, and caring, the voice of a mother even if she has not quite made it that far. "Hello, what's wrong? What are all these tears splayed upon the grapeleaves for? Shh, quiet, the crying will not do much but augment the pain..."   
  
Caelwen does not seem truly startled at the sudden appearance of an Imladris elleth at her haven of vines, but takes a moment or two to attempt to still her weeping a little ere turning her face to the newcomer. Her voice is low, as though speaking in confidence, and is oft interrupted by latecoming sobs. "'Tis not me... 'tis Loth-Lothdaimoth. H-h-he is very hurt, and he is right here... and I try to stay away..." Her tone begins to raise into a weeping wail again, bruised, tear-filled eyes fastened upon Nyashcala's kind pair. "But I can't and I'm afraid and I don't have anyone else in this strange place!"   
  
Still, Nyashcala's face looks troubled, and with a flicker of her wrist, she produces a handkerchief from the apparent air, and uses it the gently wipe away the tears that spill all across Caelwen's face. "Shh, shh, I'm here, and I don't eat other elves, I promise." The drummer smiles in what she hopes is a comforting way. "I don't believe I had the chance to introduce myself before. I am Nyashcala...I am a drummer here in Imladris."   
  
The soft murmur of voices finally penetrates Lothdaimoth's cloak of grief. Raising his head, he peers towards the sound. Someone else has come while he paid no attention. Tensing still further, he relaxes just as suddenly when he realizes this is someone he knows. Softly, tentatively, he makes his way down the field towards them; stopping a few paces away as if unsure of his welcome.   
  
Shallow, shuddering breaths wrack the young elleth's form as a hankerchief is brushed gently across her face, and Caelwen's skin grows yet more white in the darkness. "I am.. sorry," hiccups in the aftermath of the sobbing interrupt her speech and cause her to wince in pain. "I am acting... like a child. I.. am Caelwen, a potter in.. Lothlorien. ...we do not have drummers at home." Her shoulders hunch, but her weeping subsides, though her eyes are still wide and haunted in the gloom. "H-have you met Lothdaimoth? He is a Vinter and Royal Counsel." Her voice grows smaller. "I am very proud of him, and it is odd to talk about him as if he were not right here listening." Her hand relaxes the least bit on the vines, but her gaze stares fixedly at the kind elleth's face.   
  
"We all have our moments of distress, Caelwen-mellon, and from what I have heard of your passage here to Imladris, you are more than in your right to be grieved." Nyashcala smiles, softly, and offers the handkerchief, which also smells softly of goatskin and oil, to the other elleth so that she may retain some of her dignity by cleaning herself further. "I have met him, by way of Faerlin at the Opening Ceremonies." In another pause of her speech, Nyashcala looks up, her brillant sapphire eyes reflecting the moonlight as a cat's, and for a moment settles her gaze directly on Lothdaimoth as if she has known of his presence the entire time. The look is not unkind, but rather welcoming, with a touch of question. Then she returns her attentions to Caelwen. "Well, perhaps he will make the situation somewhat less awkward, and join it. It seems you both have much to discuss, much to heal."   
  
And at her words, Lothdaimoth takes one last step and crouches down. "Mae govannen, Nyashcala," he says, but unhappy eyes remain on Caelwen. His free hand reaches out to her, but stops mid-air and hovers before being drawn back. Softly, hesitantly, he says, "Caelwen... ? Please ... I - I am sorry."

Caelwen takes Nyashcala's handkerchief, pressing it to a cheek. "The Opening Ceremony... all a blur to me." Her chin ducks down, and she looks a bit frightened at Lothdaimoth. "You did naught wrong. I kept pestering you when you did not want to be pestered." Her lip trembles again as though tears hover on the brink anew. "I've always pestered you without asking if you wanted it. I am sorry. I know how... I know how.." She takes a deep breath to calm herself, then whimpers in pain at the result, eyes squeezing shut for a while. "How things have been. And what you need." Her damp lashes lift again, and peridot eyes peer from the darkness.   
  
Nyashcala rocks backwards on to her heels, just enough that she can see both Lothdaimoth and Caelwen comfortably. She nods an acknowledgement to the edhel's greeting, but does not speak. She apparently has decided that, which her words would only interfere now, that her presence is non-obtrusive. So the drummer stays, a quiet support for her new friends.   
  
Still uncertain, Lothdaimoth's hand again stretches out towards his cousin. Dark eyes are filled with pain, but by some effort, he keeps his voice even. "What do I need?" Half under the sheltering vines himself, where star and moonlight are scattered and lost, he appears made of shadows himself. And the vines droop a little further than before, or maybe it is only a trick of the memory?   
  
"I thought," Caelwen begins, every word questioning, "You needed to be left alone?" Still faintly wary, she studies her cousin then looks to the pregnant elleth beside him. Clad in white with pale skin, the young Cennan almost seems to glow in the darkness twined by night and shade. "But, actually, maybe you just need to not see /me/." Her voice grows even more sorrowful, but she seems more free to talk with Nyashcala near. "In which case it was completely wrong of me to look for you. I m-mean.. I do not remind Rosgwaen of Lanthir when I can help it." She drops to a whisper, and with a confused glance to Lothdaimoth's hand, she begins to raise her own.   
  
Still, the elleth does not speak, but her bright eyes flicker back and forth between the two Galadhrim. If Lothdaimoth is shadow, and Caelwen starlight, then Nyashcala is the earth between. She does not reflect the light around her, but then she does not fade into her surroundings. Rather--she is a part and apart both from the scene, a shoulder and a heart to lean upon, but not an obstructing force.   
  
"Rosgwaen?" Lothdaimoth looks somewhat bewildered at this non sequitor. Then the frown clears and he nods to himself. Sliding from his crouch into a cross-legged seat, he drops his hand to cover hers. A sigh slumps his shoulders and he stares down at the moist earth searching for words. "I.." he begins slowly. "Twas no fault of yours, mellon - save that your presence reminded me of my own grievous failures. And .. and when Galena.." He stops and swallows, unable to continue for several minutes. When next the deep quiet voice joins the hum of the night, he has gone to a different subject. "I am sorry." Still, dark eyes remain fixed on the ground, black hair yet uncombed fall past his cheeks and screening his expression from view. Very quietly, he adds, "Knowing how I hurt you only made it worse."   
  
Caelwen's brows draw together and she glowers during the silence that follows Galena's name, her hand tightening around Lothdaimoth's larger one. "Failures..?" she queries in gentle confusion, then turns to speak to Nyashcala. "He protected me from wolves, you know. There would have been naught for Erinst-star to save if not for him. And when I was half-dead from my own despair, he got me here, and I am sure he did not wish for the constant burden of his little cousin."   
  
Both her hands now grip the Vinter's, the hankerchief abandoned to her lap, and she turns her attention back to him, tear-tracks yet glimmering in starlight. "You are my dearest friend.. that's why I was trying to help you. And my pain is none of your fault. I tried very hard to not let you see it; I'm sorry you did..." Her words trail a bit helplessly.   
  
The drummer shifts on the ground to better spread her weight over her legs. At the mention of wolves, her brow knits, and she shakes her head softly, speaking quietly so that she does not interupt the flow of the discussion. "I would say, Lothdaimoth-mellon, that if you are the reason that Caelwen still breathes, all other failures should be put past. Erinstar lives, and he will heal in time...I would hope that is enough to mend the hurts you both have suffered over the events..."   
  
"I left him." Lothdaimoth's head bows further. The tearing anguish born of such choices catches at his voice, deepening it still further. "That he lives is no doing of mine, for I abandoned him to die. Not only once, but twice. Galena.. Galena was right. I bring only pain to those about me." Finally, he looks up, dark eyes searching for green ones in the dim hush of night. "How could I not know? You are my cousin. I have known you since you were born, yet you think you could hide your grief from me?"   
  
"Galena is a terrible person and I don't like her at all." Words pop from Caelwen's mouth, and afterwards she looks guiltily from person to person as though ashamed of thinking such thoughts. She then creeps closer to her cousin, settles herself beside him and slides her arm behind his back while she looks to Nyashcala "That we lost Erinstar at all is my fault, not his, and I am /so/ sorry..." tears creep into her voice again, if not her eyes. "So sorry for all the pain I've caused. What were you to do? I was really hoping you'd abandon me and find him instead." She sniffles; her voice grows lower. "You've never brought any pain to me."   
  
A wince of pain, not physical, twists Lothdaimoth's face. Carefully lifting his arm to rest on her shoulders, another wince joins the first; this one evidentally caused by his wound. "How could I leave you?" Despite the healing that has begun since Erinstar's return, his eyes still are haunted. "You were growing so ill, how could I have ever lived with myself again had I left you there alone?" Still quieter, "After I myself advised you to come?"   
  
Drifting up the path from the direction of the House, a gentle melody is carried on the breeze, heralding the arrival of a slender elleth. Glasiel carries a basket, and seems to be just passing through. Just passing through, that is, until she spies the trio of elves resting under a vine. Her song fades, and she approaches them. She nods to them, and greets them tentatively. "Mae govannen, mellyn?" Her tone is puzzled, and her expression concerned, as she gets close enough to see the edhil's faces, and to feel the disturbance of fea that seems to be the norm in the presence of two of them. . .   
  
"The whole situation is just horrible," Caelwen sniffles, sorrow limning her soft voice. "And every turn the worse for you, and naught could I do to stop it. That Galena did that to you is inexcusable." She glowers again, fiery brows lowered as she glares at the moist dirt, then looks up as a song fades and Glasiel approaches. "Mae govannen," is her gentle reply.   
  
The continual mention of Galena's name is making Lothdaimoth more and more tense. Furrows deepen in his face, mingled pain and distress and at last he lets his arm slide down from Caelwen's shoulders. Some of the pain subsides then. "And for you.. and I only made it worse." Distant music is followed by a soft greeting, and the young vintner stiffens again, hesitating before looking around. In that small space of time, he has composed his face to calmness. Surprise flickers through dark eyes at the sight of the healer (again!). "Good even." A glance is given the star-filled sky above and a tiny smile tugs at one corner of his mouth before disappearing. "Or morn, should you prefer.."   
  
Glasiel smiles gently, crouching down to reach the others' eye-level, resting on her feet only. Her basket she places beside herself. "Good even, Lothdaimoth. Do not distress yourself over my presence, I looked not for you this time." A fleeting glance lands on the edhel's arm, however she does not mention the injury. "I only walked this way by custom, on my way to gather some herbs from the woods on the other side of this vineyard."   
  
Her gaze travels over each face before her for a moment, and she grows increasingly concerned in her expression. "I hope all is well? . . . and that I am not intruding on your privacy? I can leave, it you prefer." She doesn't sound confident of the first question, nor of the second, and seems sincere in the third. Her tone is much more soft and calm than it has yet been in Lothdaimoth's presence.   
  
Caelwen's eyes fly anxiously to Lothdaimoth's face as his arm is dropped, and she studies fretfully the familiar planes of it. Her own arm behind his back shifts uncomfortably.. but then steadies and stays where it is. This worried face is then turned to Glasiel. "/Please/ stay," the Indiri says. "Please.." her eyes are intent as though she is trying to hint at something.   
  
Lothdaimoth has opened his mouth to speak, but Caelwen forestalls him. And whatever he might prefer, he merely nods his head in agreement with his cousin's wishes. In the silver-filled night, green leaves rustle a little - perhaps a small breeze has stirred them. One reaching tendril curls vaguely through the air, drooping and tracing a path across the counsel's dark hair before being tugged loose again.   
  
Glasiel seems to take no notice of Lothdaimoth's reticence, offering Caelwen a warm smile instead. "The vineyards here are lovely, are they not? They allow such an unobstructed view of the stars on nights like this one. 'Tis why I pass this way as often as I can, on my way to the forest. How heal your ribs, mellon? Are you feeling more like yourself yet?"   
  
"I am," Caelwen says, subdued. "Although I don't imagine I'll truly feel myself until I am home again." Wide, moon-like eyes peer urgently at Glasiel through the darkness, and she flickers several glances to Lothdaimoth. On the side away from her cousin, a slim white hand gestures toward him, hidden from his view. "The vineyards here are fair, aye... 'tis so strange how they build wooden frames for them instead of allowing the vines to grow naturally on trees. But I think I've said that before."   
  
Still quiet, nigh-motionless, Lothdaimoth sits and listens only. Clear moonlight pours down, bathing him in its white light - save only where shadows cast by leaves dance across his figure. In the distance, a sleepy chirp; and in the east, the sky brightens imperceptibly. Morning comes apace, though yet it is dark and the stars shine unhindered.   
  
Glasiel answers Caelwen's spoken comments, and whether she sees any other requests in her manner, her face does not betray their acceptance. She nods, smiling. "Aye, it was long before I felt about these vines as I do now. And yet still am I fond of my memories of Lorien's vines. Fret not, mellon. You shall see them again soon, I'm certain of it. And yet I am glad of your visit, and your friendship." Her tone is calm and soothing, and also melodious. Barely noticeable behind the words, a melody can be felt, the same healing melody she hummed once before.   
  
A smile, wide and easy and contrasting with the tearstains, blooms on Caelwen's face, teeth shining through the waning darkness. "Oh, yes!" she replies chattily, mien lightening as though a burden were suddenly lifted. "I forgot you were from Lorien. How long have you been here? You are of the Laiquendi, are you not? Know you Methenauth or Andeldaiel?" Her arm tightens faintly around Lothdaimoth.   
  
A slight squeeze and Lothdaimoth turns his gaze from contemplating the fields to look at Caelwen questioningly. But she is speaking to Glasiel. Laiquendi? Dark eyes lift and regard the healer. All previous emotions have been successfully locked away again, nothing shows save a faint interest. The melody, almost below the threshold of hearing, goes unnoticed. Or does it.. Unnoticed, he relaxes the smallest bit. And the bit of vine that bobs in the air touches his shoulder and bounces back again.   
  
The faintest light of satisfaction shines in the back of the healer's eyes, as she continues to 'chat' with Caelwen in the same singsong tone. "Aye, mellon. However long one stays away from Lorien, it never leaves one's heart. My own parents still reside there, and are in my thoughts often. Often when I rest and meditate, I can see the mallyrn rise about me, their golden leaves sheltering and restoring me, even though I came to serve at Hir Elrond's House many years ago now."   
  
Caelwen's smile falters a little. "I miss Lorien a great deal. I hope my family does not worry too much... but why would they, I suppose, when one of them came with me?" A fond look is cast over Lothdaimoth, a look that measures him a little before she turns back to Glasiel. "Why did you leave?" she queries in faint bewilderment. "Do you plan on coming back? Everything is so... odd out here, is it not?"   
  
Silver trunks and golden leaves. Glasiel's description of the beloved mellyrn of Lorien brings them into sharp focus and Lothdaimoth's eyes lose their focus. Somewhere in distant realms, a brook gurgles, soft green moss creeps, tiny star-like flowers echo the gems that adorn the heaves - and all speak of home.   
  
Almost imperceptibly does Glasiel's smile widen. She again answers Caelwen, in the same tone, leaving Lothdaimoth to his reverie. "I came to Imladris to follow in my brother's footsteps, and we both came hither to serve in our father's place, since he could not bear to leave the shelter of the mellyrn, and yet was indebted to Hir Elrond for past kindnesses. . ." Her song falters for the tiniest of moments before continuing again. "In any case, Elda was always of a wandering nature, and though I at first found this strange, I also missed him in his absence. And so I followed him here."   
  
"Well, then," the Dinlom Indiri says, with a faint note of approval entering her voice. "I do understand serving as your father does." Caelwen sighs, lashes fluttering faintly as she, too, briefly sinks into some memory. "Will you return home to visit, then?" Her eyes snap open, even as a few stars begin to give way to the lightening sun in the east. "Nay.. what am I saying? The trip is far to dangerous to warrant any travel." She sneaks another glimpse of her beloved cousin's face, and whatever she sees there brings a new smile to her.   
  
Indebted. Wandering. Danger. A small frown brings black eyebrows together, the peace on his face giving way to sorrow. After all, Lorien is too far for him to hear the brook. The mellyrn aren't visible. Around him, grapevines sway uneasily. And somewhere, closer now, wargs howl under a glowering sky and greedy flames flicker.  
  
The smile on Glasiel's face dims just slightly, and her melodic answer intensifies almost imperceptibly as she again answers Caelwen and leaves Lothdaimoth to his silent meditation. She shakes her head. "Nay, I haven't made plans to return any time soon, though after seeing so many here from that golden forest, I am starting to think on it." Her expression softens even more, and she reaches out to touch Caelwen's hand in comfort. "Rest easy, mellon. I will take no chances. Only if a perfect opportunity arises will I risk the journey, and will not travel in solitude." Despite her melodic tone, her eyebrows knit gently. This is not a good topic. Her eyes flit quickly from Caelwen's gaze to her cousin's face, then return just as fast. "I meant to ask you, will you be feeling well enough to watch the competitions planned for the week, mellon? They look quite entertaining." As one sharing a closely guarded secret, she adds, "I myself will compete in at least one event."   
  
Caelwen's head bows a little, bright copper curls swaying forward as dawn sends a few piping notes of color into the Valley from the east. She looks rather dubiously at Glasiel. "Well. If you say so. /We/ were in a group, you know." For a moment, she falls silent and allows her own memories to hunch her a little with fear, pulsing echoed terror. But then, she slips a look sidelong through her curls at her cousin, and continues in a forced merry tone. "Aye, I certainly do hope to watch, and I hope Lothdaimoth and the others will in particular join the archery contest, so the Imladrim may see the Galadhrim's skill."   
  
Face drawn with grief, Lothdaimoth seems to have fallen into brooding. Until another music entangles itself in the song of the grapes and his face eases. It is only a few moments more though, until Caelwen's words fall through the night into his mind. And beyond grief, anguish twists his expression. The slow deep rhythm of growing fades as he drops his forehead into one palm. "I'm sorry..." It is a husky whisper, barely loud enough to be heard.   
  
Glasiel's eyebrow arches, and she looks at Lothdaimoth skeptically. She asks Caelwen, "Do you think he's healed enough for that? When I finally was allowed to see to his arm, it was not yet healing." A pause. "However, much has changed, and it may well be that his recovery has begun." She's still looking at Lothdaimoth, even though her words are directed at Caelwen.   
  
Like the echo of a bell, Caelwen's face crumples into grief and heartbreak a scarce moment after Lothdaimoth's. "Nay! I'm sorry, I didn't mean.." she babbles unthinkingly, then forces her mouth shut while tightening her arm around her cousin and resting her cheek on his shoulder. Her eyes lift, she watches dawn-light for a moment, and calms somewhat with a few deep breaths. Her regretful and faintly wounded eyes fall to Glasiel. "If he thinks he is healed enough to shoot, I don't see why he mustn't."   
  
Stirred to instinctive reaction by Caelwen's distress, Lothdaimoth lifts his head. "Nay.." he says softly. Cobwebs of thought and memory take a little while to clear themselves from his dark eyes and he shakes his head a little, as if uncertain of just where he is. "Caelwen. Don't cry." His arm tightens about her, bringing an unconscious tightening of the small muscles about his lips. Forcing his voice to normalcy then, he asks, "Shoot?" Only the faintest of tremors betrays him.   
  
Glasiel's gaze moves back and forth between the two young elves before her. Her arms ache to gather them both in comforting embrace, rocking them until their sorrows ease. Instead, her conversation ceases, and instead she sings to them. Softly, gently, tenderly as a mother to her children.   
  
She sings to them of healing and peace, of joy and rejuvenation, of calm and serenity. Glasiel's hands reach out and hover over each of their heads for a moment, before traveling down. First to their cheeks, then hovering over their hearts. She does not actually touch them, but her slow and deliberate hand motions are a calming influence on the fea.   
  
Caelwen sniffles. "I'm not crying," she speaks in a tone that may very well make a lie of her words. Still caught somewhat in the aftermath of her fear, she allows her eyes to fall shut as she huddles beside Lothdaimoth, arm still firm about him. A song is cast over her, and her breathing stills yet further. Eager, the shattered maid opens herself to the healing, trembling under the soothing calm that salves her hurt.   
  
The last few stars shine briefly in the west before being losing their light in the glorious sun. Rays of golden light probe across the vineyard, bringing all that they touch to brilliant color. And one caressing shaft lights on Lothdaimoth's head where he sits cradling his cousin in his injured arm. Caught unawares by the healing touch that he would vigorously deny he needed if asked, the vintner's eyes widen and he stares at Glasiel, rather in the manner of a trapped deer. But something within responds to her song, and in spite of himself, he relaxes. Just a little.   
  
Glasiel's eyes close, her face smoothing into serene lines as her song strengthens. Ever so gently, her hands hover over the edhil's hearts, moving gently in circular motions. Even without looking, her hands seem to know where to hover, never moving closer nor further from their bodies. As the sun's rays warm the vineyard and its guests, so does the healer's song grow warmer and more uplifting in it's melody. And yet, though its strength grows with each measure, its volume remains soothing and quiet, for the ears of these two only.   
  
But the younger cousin loses herself into the song with an almost desperate haste, relaxing more fully in her lean against Lothdaimoth. Another shaft slips between a hole in the leaves to alight on Caelwen's face, and her brow furrows faintly. Bright peridot eyes lazily open, and she looks up to Glasiel, then beyond, to the bright sunrise. A memory finds her, and surfaces as a smile.   
  
The sudden extra weight against his side brings Lothdaimoth's gaze away from Glasiel and down to his cousin. And a smile gleams across his face to match hers. Almost as if they two feed upon each other's emotions, he relaxes in concert with Caelwen. At least until he realizes anew what is happening. The smallest of wriggles moves him backwards in the dirt, so that the healer's hands are further away. No other protest does he make, seemingly content to allow her to continue; perhaps for Caelwen's sake if not his own. Slowly, purple-green tendrils of song twine down through the layers of pain and guilt, uncertainty and self-condemnation; and at last those layers begin to thin like clouds before the sun.   
  
Glasiel's eyes never open. Indeed, her face has turned upward, as if to absorb the warmth of the rising sun while she sings softly to these two. And yet, though she sees not Lothdaimoth's motion, her hand moves with it, almost imperceptibly, until it again rests at the same distance from his chest. A peaceful expression grows in her features, experienced senses picking up the reactions of the patients' faer to her efforts. Finally, after her song has continued for many verses, she reaches the end. Her eyes open once again, and her hands return to her lap. Softly comes her spoken voice, floating on the gentle breeze like soothing balm. "The new day has arrived, mellyn. Yesterday's woes are behind us now, are they not?"   
  
Light warms Caelwen's curls, finding gold to play with and bright copper to hum through. The Cennan is disturbed by Lothdaimoth's backward's motion, 'twould seem, for she raises her head to look questioningly up at him. Still, fiery brows fret mildly together as she studies him after Glasiel's question. A brief sigh. "I do hope so, mellon." But still, the younger cousin is relaxed, and her worry seems to lie softer on her shoulders.   
  
Far above all the trouble and turmoil of Arda, the depthless blue sky floats serene and still. And beyond all, the Music of the Ainur plays across time to its foregone conclusion. Still, here on this little space of land, surrounded by burgeoning life, perhaps the tide for those bound to the earth turns towards good. For Caelwen sits easier and Lothdaimoth's burden lightens for it. As well, some of the troubles that have sat heavy on his own heart are eased, though not all wounds can be healed so swiftly. A wicked little breeze comes to play among the vines, setting them dancing and a smile crosses the his face as he watches.


	20. A Gift Among the Grapes

_The peace that Lothdaimoth had found remained with him all through the long day and night since. But comfortable here among the grapes, he had not left._

The mists of dawn still linger heavily over the Imladris vineyards, cloaking interwoven vines of deep green and purple in a thick blanket of dew soon to evaporate with the warm summer sun. The air is warm and moist, and upon its silence a sweetness dwells - one undoubtedly brought about by the various fruits that now begin ripen upon their vines. The summer wears on with patience untold, a rich asset to the slow growing fruits that shall sweeten the valley's wines with the coming of autumn and winter. It is unhurried, as are the footsteps of she who now walks the fields in the shady hours that morning brings.   
  
Fluid, meandering steps are the Miruvorthaer Eryndae's wont, poise inherent in age and wisdom pervading her thoughts as they show upon her face, ponderous and yet serene. While her right arm is held casually behind her back, resting at the small, her left arm hangs somewhat limply at her side. The fingertips of this seemingly lifeless limb brush absently over the pale silk of the lady's white gown with her movement; but clasped in the hand held behind her is a medium sized pouch, sewn of deep forest green felt and tied by a piece of silver twine.   
  
Standing motionless among the vines, as if he has been there throughout the night (and he has), is Lothdaimoth's tall figure. Long black hair tangles down his back, cascading over a dark grey shirt. Small, unseen and nigh-unfelt currents of air move over the fields of ripening grapes; one swirls the mist away from the young vintner. Blinking, he moves for the first time, stretching a little and smiling. Then, apparently unmindful of who else might watch, he begins to walk along the row. Long gentle fingers occasionally caress the tendril of vine as he passes and once, he stops and stoops to peer at the waxy purpling green of the fruit. Lines of pain and grief not so long past still mar his face, but a peace not seen there for some time is slowly returning.   
  
"Counsel," a cystalline voice extends, its melody smooth and soft so as not to startle the edhel too harshly from his apparent reverie. Here a shadowy smile lifts the pale corners of Eryndae's lips, not entirely devoid of pain and weariness in its nature. "I have sought you out over the last day or so...." A further pause breaks the clear pattern of her flowing voice, a sigh rising and falling in her chest before continuing. "Perhaps I should have thought to look here first of all." Footfalls slowed now lift once more in a more direct pace, bearing the lady to Lothdaimoth's side.   
  
Surprised by the unexpected voice, Lothdaimoth looks around, dark eyes alighting on the lady who speaks. His own lips tilt in a small smile and he bows a little. Softly, a barely-noticeable catch in his words, he says, "I .. have spent much of my time here." Again, he reaches out - almost without thought - to the dark green leaves that surround them. His smile turns a little shy. "I have not been a vintner for so very long, yet I find great comfort, and ease beyond thought among the vines." One arm is held a little stiffly, the sleeve bunched under a white bandages near his shoulder. Silent for several minutes, he allows his eyes to wander across the milky white mist that blankets the fields, before returning them to her face curiously. "Why did you seek me, if I might ask?"  
  
The young vintner's story inspires a less fleeting smile upon the blossom of Eryndae's mouth, one that grows with the brief account. As curiosity intertwined with her last words, so does it increase with those spoken thereafter. "I presume not to know the nature of your errand, only that is not far sundered from mine own." Eryndae's eyes leave Lothdaimoth's face to drift slowly over the broad expanse of the vineyards, lingering fondly upon plants here and there. "Though only my charge over this, the last age, the Herdir's vineyards have always brought me joy and inspiration. Have you found that which you seek, be it one, the other, or aught else entirely?"   
  
With the lilt of her question, the Miruvorthaer's gaze bends upon the Counsel o Lothlorien once more, a discerning light kindling in eyes that have seen millenia pass without losing their keenness. As she responds to his own inquiry in turn, this light deepens anew into a sorrow and weariness not successfully hidden in entirety. "I had hoped to settle memories all too recent in the pain they bring... and to convey my gratitude." Here the Miruvorthaer falters, struggling visibly with thoughts unspoken, and perhaps a humility not often known by the lady.   
  
"My errand here to the vineyards?" Lothdaimoth inquires. "Before.." His eyes grow distant, darkening in memory. Still his quiet voice continues, deep and even. "I came for refuge. There was no other haven I could find." One shoulder lifts in a shrug and he looks back to her face, his smile twisting a little before smoothing again. "Now.. thankfulness draws me back. And the opportunity to spend some time admiring your fields. We do not grow our vines thus, but about the mellyrn." He begins to wave towards the trellis arrangement with his injured arm, but winces and halts the motion. Enthusiasm begins to overlay the strain and tension of past weeks, lightly but growing. "And some of your grapes are varieties completely new to me."   
  
The first rays of sunlight creep onto the field and turning the thinning mist into a blaze of gold. And Lothdaimoth seems lost for a time in thought. But at last Eryndae's words pierce his abstraction and he turns to seek her eyes with his own. Concern, gentleness - and a deep empathy for her struggle, having known so much the same himself. "Gratitude?" he says at last, only this one word.   
  
Gratitude. A subtle nod remains Eryndae's silent affirmation of the word until at length she again finds words. "None less than the favor from one whose life was spared by your bow, Counsel," she murmurs low, shoulders lifting with poise hindered by a wince of pain on the lady's own face as well. Where smiles would accompany words warmly spoken, the Miruvorthaer's solemnity rather depeens, spoken events clearly still near to mind as are her own wounded shoulder. "For this, is aught else owed below the most fervent gratitude. This I give to you, and freely so. Along with what token I can spare that would match my thankfulness." At this, Eryndae brings forward the pouch long held in her palm.   
  
Every whispered movement of her fingers, light and painstakingly delicate over the soft fabric, foretells of the value of what lies within... at least, to her. "I pray that what today bring to you as new and unusual, in time will grow to be a blessing in the wood of your Lord and Lady."   
  
Taken aback, Lothdaimoth reaches hesitantly for the proffered pouch. "I had forgotten. I.. there was much else on my mind," he confesses after a moment. Again the knife of memory twists his expression. "Lady," he says then, formally. "No gratitude is needed. I am only glad some small good came out of such an evil day. That it was my arrow was no more than chance, for any other would have done the same."   
  
Her smile resurface, soft and reassuring in its serenity, as nimble fingers work to untie the parcel. Eryndae's wintry eyes remain with her task although her words are still offered to Lothdaimoth. "Be it unsought after or otherwise, my gratitude stays with you. And this gift, for many years."   
  
Thus as the contents of the package are at last revealed from beneath evergreen folds of fabric, the Miruvorthaer finds conviction and renewed stability by merely looking upon what lies within - a small clipping of a pale green vine, a few deep green leaves clinging weakly to the stalk, withered by days apart from the earth. Yet life clearly remains within, a gift now extended slowly and pressed into the Counsel's palm. "I offer you one of our oldest vines, of those born in the Vale at the end of the last age. Though cut in the middling days of the winter months, it will survive your long journey home to the Golden Wood, if properly cared for."   
  
Almost reverently, Lothdaimoth cups his hand about the small living thing. Eyelids droop and shut while he stands there, his head bent as if listening to something far distant. And his other hand comes up, the pain of movement disregarded, to run a finger with practiced care down a leaf. "And now my thanks are yours. Such a gift..." The faint smile that has graced his face grows as dark eyes open again, anguish beneath receding a little further. "Is there ought of special care that it needs?" A recurrence of earlier enthusiasm sounds in his eager voice as he suddenly abandons all solemnity, and the ghost of a chuckle whispers from his lips. "I meant to ask if there were any cuttings I could take home with me; I did not know you would forestall my request." Irresistibly, his gaze returns to the plant, lingering there. "This above all else you could have chosen, I will prize."   
  
"Such that is of Arda may never heal the wounds of the fae," Eryndae intones softly, voice falling nearly to a whisper as eyes likewise drop to the ground, the mists that covered it now fading beneath the sun's warming face. "And yet I hope someday the joy I have found in tending these vines can also be yours and that of your kinsmen."   
  
Looking up once more to take in Lothdaimoth's reaction, the elder vintner and also warrior pulls back her hand to leave both vine and wrapping fully in his keeping. "Care must be minded in a delicate touch ere you reach your lands anew, lest the clipping come to harm along the way. Once there, it will grow in any soil, though the sandier earth will bear richer fruits when autumn brings her blessings in the following year." Tilting her head to the side, flaxen locks cascade forward over a bandaged left shoulder as it is forgotten beneath the nature of her thoughts.   
  
"Plant it at the base of one of your great Mallorn, in the partial shade. In the second and third years, these will need something upon which to grow, and yours shall reach toward golden leaves." In the moments of her reverie recalled fleetingly to mind, a flicker of gold reminiscent of those very leaves flickers across eyes too often left icy and cold.   
  
Even as Lothdaimoth tucks the grape vine back into its protective covering, he follows each word spoken intently. "Yes.." he murmurs, the silver trunks and golden leaves of Lorien's beloved mellyrn standing clear once more in his eyes. "I know of one that has no fruit below it..." Completely hidden now from sight, only the bulge of the material tells of the precious thing concealed within. "Again, I thank you. And if ever you should find yourself among our woods, you will see it growing there."   
  
"I do hope the days in which I might again find myself in fair Lothlorien are not yet past," Eryndae chuckles, laughter flowing as would a low bubbling brook just freed from the icy hold of winter's chill by the coming of spring. Her age shining out through silvered blue eyes momentarily recaptured by a wistful weariness slightly different from that which shone earlier therein. "It's beauty reminds me of the Hidden Kingdom, more than any land upon Arda..." Here her voice trails away into nothingness, lost upon a gust of warm summer breeze lifting the leaves on the vines with a gentle rustling. The lady's right hand, now empty as her gift has been given, absently brushes to the bandages of her left shoulder. "Yet danger follows even between the richest lands. I grieve to think forward to your kinsmen's departure out into such peril again."   
  
"I too. Danger there has always been, but when it is to another.. " Lothdaimoth's voice roughens and he turns away - just a little. "That I could not aid a friend in need brings far greater pain than any wound to myself." His half step and turn has brought him closer to the row of grapes, and as if seeking comfort, he moves nearer still; until it appears he stands enfolded by a leafy green embrace. With an effort, he says, "I am perhaps a little biased, but Lothlorien is the fairest of all the lands I have seen. Though I have only left her borders twice in my lifetime."   
  
As Anar continues her voyage across the sky towards noon, the shadows shorten. Therefore there is no warning cast across the ground, telling of the approach of Glasiel once more. She emerges from the shelter of the woods with her gathering basket, and, seeing two edhil standing in the vineyard (one of whom, she's been searching for) she approaches.   
  
Her first words, however, are not addressed to Lothdaimoth. "Miruvorthaer! That dressing looks in need of change. I would be happy to attend to it, when you have a moment?" She nods a greeting to Lothdaimoth, with a look mingling concern with ... is that annoyance? But she doesn't say anything to him. Yet.   
  
Curiosity conquering her demeanor once more, Eryndae studies Lothdaimoth's features with eyes narrowed more in an effort to discern rather than any competing reason. "And what brings you and your kinsmen here now... if I might ask?" Though captured by thought and wrapped fully in their discourse, hands worn by work with both sword and shears alike sift absently through the lush vines, plucking wilted leaves to tuck back into her palm.   
  
Though after a moment's time, her eyes are drawn away from Lothdaimoth to meet Glasiel's arrival. "I appreciate your offer, Olvaristdil, and will return to the halls of healing with you in my first free moment." Her smile to Glasiel is softened by the sight of the elleth's concern...though the unspoken sentiment passed to Lothdaimoth in her stare does not go unnoticed. One flaxen eyebrow lifting in a subtle arch, Eryndae looks between the two.   
  
"We had several reasons. Some of our healers, it was felt, would benefit..." Lothdaimoth has barely begun to answer when Glasiel's voice brings his head around and he halts. Her look is returned, but with reserve instead of concern, wariness not irritation. "Would benefit from the teachings of those here. Your methods, I understand are different." Again, a fleeting glance is cast towards the newcomer, as if he wishes he had picked some other reason to begin with.   
  
Glasiel sighs deeply as she casts another lingering glance toward Lothdaimoth. After a moment, she turns back toward Eryndae. "In the meantime, please try to minimize the movements of that shoulder, mellon? I realize that the vines need your expert care, but I'm sure they would rather receive briefer attention now, instead of a complete lack later. If you were to cause further damage by doing too much, too soon. . . But there. I don't mean to lecture you. I'm afraid that in my eagerness to help, I often press too hard."   
  
Although she directs her words mainly to Eryndae, her fleeting glances toward the visitor from Lorien might cause one to wonder toward whom these words are actually directed. Indeed, she now directs a quiet statement directly to Lothdaimoth. "I've found the /healers/ among you to be quite full of good sense and wisdom, sir. Would that others in your visiting group could follow their example." Why is it that she uses the plural here?   
  
"Oh," Eryndae muses in nearly whispered acknowledgement. The edhel's apparent discomfort seems to stir a meeting of confusion and mild amusement, evidenced by the quizzical pursing of her lips as well as a faint sparkle in her argent eyes. Absently continuing her task, the lady drifts slightly along the row of vines, occasionally casting a curious glance to her side at Lothdaimoth.   
  
But as Glasiel addresses her, the Miruvorthaer dutifully drops her left arm at her side once more, palm skimming flat over the silk of her skirts as she leans down to some of the lower vines with her opposite hand. Her answer, however, is softer spoken than it otherwise might be. "I will do as you say, to the extent that I can, Glasiel. Your concern is much...appreciated...?" The crystalline tone of her fair voice now fades almost entirely to a mutter as Glasiel speaks with the edhel in quiet aside.   
  
Glasiel's words to him bring shutters down in the counsel's eyes, with an almost audible thud. "I am glad that you have found them so," he says politely. In contrast to the easy tone of earlier, his voice has filled with tension; and he returns to the previous subject at once. "Also, there was a desire among some to renew ties with their kindred - my own sister traveled with us to return to her home in your valley after a visit away." Almost unseen below the vibrant leaves that sway whether there be breeze or no, the fingers of one hand have clenched together until the knuckles are white.   
  
Almost as if she doesn't notice the tension in his voice and manner, Glasiel nods, answering his words instead. It seems she's taking a different approach with this edhel this time. "Indeed? I wonder if I know her. I have myself been blessed by your visit, in finding a cousin I knew not that I had. I believe you know Galena?" Here she glosses over /how/ she knows that bit of information. . . "I hadn't met my cousin before, and so imagine our surprise when we discovered our kinship! For her mother is my mother's sister-daughter."   
  
Eryndae's face lights with mild surprise beyond modest interest. "Truly remarkable, to have found such ties between those thought to be strangers. And from lands sundered by years and miles alike! Renewal of ties, indeed." Within the silence of a moment's hesitation in her thinking aloud, the Miruvorthaer's eyes fall to Lothdaimoth's clenched fist. Thus with a smile not insincere, but forced to its current brightness, Eryndae turns to the edhel once more, with words hushed. "May you forgive a hasty departure, Counsel, and seek me out upon resolution of this...matter. I will increase my gift with more of its kind, if it suits you. Until then, namarie." Then renewing her smile for Glasiel, Eryndae pats her forearm fleetingly before drifting the rest of the way along the row of trellises. "I will seek you soon, as promised. And until then, you have my word that I will be careful."   
  
Whatever her intentions may have been, Glasiel's change in tactics brings no matching change in Lothdaimoth's manner. Instead, he only grows more tense, muscles clenching beneath his thin shirt. A grimace of pain is next, as the injured arm is also tensed. "Yes," he says flatly. "I know Galena." Eryndae's quiet speech to him brings an attempted smile. "Again, I thank you. I would be glad to speak further with you."   
  
Glasiel nods at Eryndae as she heads down the row. The master vintner's departure leaves all her attention available for the guest. "Sir, I truly do not mean to trouble you. Please forgive my single-mindedness, but every time I am near you I feel an overwhelming need to calm your troubled fae. Not to mention that arm. Will you not finally take my offer in the spirit in which it is intended? If only be kind and relieve me of my own distress?"   
  
Uncounted minutes pass in silence. The tall counsel's dark gaze stares off across the sunlit fields, a small muscle in his jaw jumping. Finally, with a determined effort not to sound grudging, he says, "Very well. You may tend my arm." Gone are the days when he would almost have preferred the wound to remain unhealed; still he seems uncaring as to its final condition. Her other words are left unanswered.   
  
Glasiel's eyes close briefly, a large sigh of relief escaping before she steps closer to look at the injured arm. "It would be better if I could convince you to accompany me to the halls of healing. All I need for this is there."   
  
Another long pause while Lothdaimoth considers this. Silence covers the long rows of grapes, growing and ripening in the warm summer sun. And reluctance grows visibly on his face. "I do not wish to leave," he says slowly. Without conscious guidance, his feet have pressed him further back into the grapes, which somehow never seem to be between his body and the trellis - thus never are pinched or injured by his movements. "I would rather remain here, have you no bandages or.. or anything here?"   
  
Glasiel's eyebrows knit for a fraction of a moment, her gaze still on Lothdaimoth's arm. "Well, at least could you stay still, so I can see what needs to be done? Better yet, you could sit here in the shade of the vines, and I could get a good look."   
  
"Oh." Lothdaimoth looks down at his errant feet in bemusement. How they had gotten him so far back into the vinery is a mystery evidently. With a shrug, he steps away from the clinging tendrils and turns a little, presenting the arm in question to the pestersome healer. The nubbly material of his shirt catches at the vines, stretching them a little before they reluctantly release their hold and coil back into place.   
  
It is day, for the sun shines. Be it morning or afternoon. From the South, Randinen approaches. As is his wont his pace is swift, an errand to run, final preparations to make for the Tournament? Although the matter seems not an urgent one, for as he discovers the other quendi, he easily halts. "Mae govannen, mellyn!" greets he in pleasant voice, "What brings each of you hither? Was there not enough beverage to enjoy last night?" he chuckles at the recalling of the feast.    
  
The healer's hand is just about to push up the sleeve to get a better look, when Randinen arrives, momentarily drawing her attention away from her task. "Mae govannen, Hirvaethor. The feast was truly bountiful, but I am not here to gather grapes from these vines. This guest . . ." she turns back to the guest, apologetically. "I don't think I ever learned your name. . ." then back to Randinen to finish her explanation. ". . . has been injured, and has agreed to let me dress his wound. I do wish I had bandages with me, however, since he seems loathe to return with me to the infirmary."   
  
"Loath to return?" echoes Randinen, a frown forming. So he turns to the Galadhrim, "Mellon, why will you not be tended?"   
  
Around his upper arm a (mostly) white bandage bulks. At the edges, dried blood has crusted almost black. Lothdaimoth looks up and then back and forth from Glasiel to Randinen, uncertain which question to begin with. "I am Lothdaimoth," he says at last. "I came here to .. spend some time among the vines. I have said she might tend the injury, but I do not wish to leave." Again without thought, his feet begin their slow migration backwards, but this time he catches himself before he has moved from his place. Or at least by very much.    
  
A sudden grin captures the Hirvaethor's lips. Folding his arms he states a thoughtful: "Hmm..." one hand supporting his elbow, a finger he places to his lips, slowly walking towards the Galadhrim. Yet he seeks not to trap this elf, for he poses himself between him and the healer.   
  
"And will you perhaps visit our Healing Halls, once you spend some time hither, mellon? For then..." here he faces Glasiel, "I strongly object to move this edhel against his will. If he finds delight amongst the vines, no harm will it bring, correct? Lest he suffers from a dreadful ailment which needs immediate and severe treatment?"   
  
Glasiel nods, calling to one of the elves who tend the vines, "Would you find a healer in the hall and ask them to bring what's needed for an. . . arrow wound?" The last bit is something of a question, directed at Lothdaimoth. Her eyes travel the edges of the bandage, her fingers hovering but not yet touching. To Randinen, she replies, "I have some misgivings over letting him stay longer, sir. It has already been too many days without care. But I can work within his restrictions. Indeed, I am only too glad that he's finally agreed to let me work at all."   
  
"An arrow, yes." A bit of relief joins the resignation in Lothdaimoth's face at this unexpected support. "I would prefer not to, actually. But if she can see to it here.."   
  
"Then work." speaks Randinen calmly, spreading his hands in peaceful gesture, beckoning to Glasiel. "Likewise you may 'work' when she is done, mellon-Lothdaimoth!" explains the Hirvaethor to the injured edhel. Chuckling softly he winks, "I shall see to it they dare not drag you off to their Halls, until you have sampled some of the Herdir's finest grapes. From reliable source I might point you to these delicious treats."   
  
Glasiel nods at Randinen, her eyes still focused on the task ahead. Very carefully, she tests the edge of the bandage, to see how easily (or not) it will be removed. The dried blood hinders her progress. "This may hurt, mellon. Please try to remain still, however." With this warning, she begins to remove the bandage, very slowly and carefully so as not to tear anything anew.   
  
Undaunted Randinen turns to watch the antics of Glasiel with the greatest interest. As she starts to reveal the wound he does furrow a brow.   
  
And at last, Lothdaimoth relaxes again, grinning faintly at Randinen. "Certainly. That is no hard promise to keep for I was doing no work to begin with." Glasiel's warning brings a slight frown and then a return of resignation. As the bandage tugs at the skin, he grimaces and then turns his face away. Jaw muscles bunch as he clenches his teeth but makes no sound.   
  
It doesn't take long for Glasiel's errand to be run. While she is examining the jagged puncture wound, Ailiell rounds a green bend, seeming not at all surprised to find Lothdaimoth beneath the vines. "Mellyn," she says, kneeling with a warm smile, by Glasiel, and nodding to Randinen. "And you," adds she, with a very slight smirk for the edhel. "I see you have finally tired of being chased about the valley?" Laying down a basket of neatly rolled bandages, she turns back to the herbmistress. "I have brought geranium root and..." as she unwinds the soaked linen, "Comfrey root."   
  
Glasiel gives Ailiell a truly happy smile. "Wonderful! Thank you for bringing them. The geranium root first, I think."   
  
"I share your dislike for the Halls, mellon." speaks Randinen suddenly in a soft voice, as to not disturb the progress of the Herbmistress, "Rather I remain free and fro, outside. Still now I see your wound, it is best to see it treated, if but slightly. Injuries inflicted by the arrow can be treacherous, for we know not always what else it carries besides the cold wrath of steel."   
  
"Of course," replies Ailiell, quite cheerily now that the runaway is under careful hands. Producing the powder she glances up at the dark wound, and all mirth is replaced by a calm impassivity. Mouth set in a grim line, she silently hands off the herb, and unwinds a length of fresh bandage about her arm.   
  
"I think there is no poison." Lothdaimoth smiles in self-mockery. "Else surely I would have known by now." He turns his eyes now to the bloody gouge. "As it is, I live and with no more trouble than that it remains much as it was." Higher, still higher climbs the sun, its rays growing warmer almost hot - and still he contemplates his arm dispassionately.   
  
Glasiel looks closely at the gash for a moment, then up at Lothdaimoth's face. "This wound looks very nearly fresh. Your hurts are indeed deeper than those of an arrow. Still, there is only so much that can be done with some patients in one sitting. And so I will start with this." As she speaks, she sprinkles the powder into the wound. Reaching into her basket, she retrieves a few fresh leaves, newly gathered, and places them against the wound before reaching for the bandage from Ailiell. She wraps it carefully, neatly, and snug against the arm. This done, she steps away. "There, mellon. A second start to your healing." A second start? What was the first?    
  
Glasiel's mention of other causes behind his injury is ignored. Again. The wound is wrapped and Lothdaimoth takes a step away at the same time as the healer. But rather than continuing away, he simply stands there among the vines, his eyes unfocusing and drifting over the fields.

_The other three elves watched him for a long moment, then looked at each other with identical expressions:  stubborn Galadhrim! One after another, they moved quietly away, leaving Lothdaimoth to the comfort of the vines. The sun rose to its height, fell away down the western sky; and finally Lothdaimoth stirred.  He looked down at where the cutting Eryndae had given him lay, and then began to walk towards Elrond's great house.  He needed to find a place to keep this most precious of gifts safely until he could plant it in the soil of his own home._


End file.
